


sometimes (this has a hot, sweet taste)

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (a bit of daddy issues and a good amount of kink because why tf not?), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, eventual pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23718568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: “Princess,” the nickname falls easily off his tongue, is swept along with the wind as she makes her way toward him. Unfazed, she rolls her eyes and grabs the handle on the passenger side door. Of course, it’s locked.His lips curl into a smirk. “Going somewhere?”“If you really want me,” she says, cutting to the chase. “You drive this motherfucker to the Tournesols.”“I’m supposed to know what that means?”Now, it’s her turn to smirk. “But you do know what it means, Bellamy.”***(or: Bellamy and Clarke have sex through the summer. It wasn't supposed to get complicated.)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 128
Kudos: 436





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, this fic is my new baby -- who doesn't like a good friends with benefits tale during summertime? -- i hope y'all will love reading it as much as i love writing it. this was supposed to be fun and cute, but i guess 'comes and goes (in waves)' sorta stuck with me and this is a lot grittier than i thought it was gonna be initially. whatever. i like it like that don't @ me. 
> 
> the chapter count is temporary because let's be real i'm not good at predicting how long my fics will be. 
> 
> the fic title is from 'buzzcut season' by lorde.

> _with you i feel grapefruit juice_
> 
> _running in my blood_
> 
> _i’m just a little confused_
> 
> _what to think of us_
> 
> — **_cassiopeia_**

As the walls close in on her, he’s sitting on the hood of his blue Chevy El Camino, flashing his grin at the sun. He’s burning through the deep summer, doesn’t even need to light his cigarette and, perhaps for the first time ever, Clarke isn’t ashamed of what she needs. She needs to burn like that, too. So, she scrapes the nose of her Doc Martens against the asphalt, catching his attention. 

“Princess,” the nickname falls easily off his tongue, is swept along with the wind as she makes her way toward him. Unfazed, she rolls her eyes and grabs the handle on the passenger side door. Of course, it’s locked. 

His lips curl into a smirk. “Going somewhere?” 

“If you really want me,” she says, cutting to the chase. “You drive this motherfucker to the Tournesols.” 

“I’m supposed to know what that means?” 

Now, it’s her turn to smirk. “But you do know what it means, Bellamy.”

It means: _Take me to the outskirts of town where the world is a wasteland and the fields of sunflowers stretch beyond the horizon._ Though she’s never told him about that place, has never taken him there before, she knows that he knows about it; in the same way that she _knew_ that there would be a book in his glove compartment. She didn’t, however, foresee that it would be missing its dust jacket and most of its front cover. 

When he steers the car out of the parking lot, she picks it up. “... The Iliad.” 

“Don’t touch that.” 

She looks at him, or, rather: her gaze is attracted by how the late afternoon glow is filtering through the window and smearing the Monetesque freckles on his cheek. “I was reaching for a condom. Besides, if we’re gonna have sex the least you can do is let me read a passage to you.” 

Though his jaw clenches, he doesn’t say anything. Interpreting his silence as reluctant permission, Clarke opens the worn book on a random page and begins to read, “ _Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again—_ ”

“ _—And so with men: As one generation comes to life, another dies away_ ,” Bellamy finishes, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “Book Six. It’s underlined.” 

The ink of a ballpoint pen is bleeding through the page; there are coffee stains on it, too, and some of the corners are ruffled like they’ve been dog-eared one too many times. It’s the kind of damage that tells a tale of love. For some reason, it makes her smile. 

“Now put it back.”

Clarke looks at him again, scoffing, “You’re no fun.” 

Still, she decides to do as he asks, dropping the book back into the glove compartment before pulling out a foil-wrapped condom. Struck by a sudden prickling sensation beneath her skin, she studies her nails: the cobalt blue polish is already chipped at the edges and, for a moment, she frowns at it; that’s until she feels him hit the brakes. 

At this hour, the sun seems to be melting into the sky, painting it a deep shade of tangerine. Once Bellamy kills the engine, there is not a single sound, no distractions, just an abundance of yellow flowers in the blazing heat of mid-June.

Just the two of them. Maybe the least likely people to be here together.

They both know this, and yet it’s not an obstacle. Without uttering a word, they leave the car — _the air was turning heavy in there anyway_ — and jump the wired fence to disappear among the tall sunflowers. Because there isn’t enough space between the rows for them to walk side-by-side, he leads the way, reaching back to touch her hand. 

“What? You think I’m gonna flee back to the car or something?”

“Well,” Bellamy says, coming to a sudden halt. She nearly bumps into him, but he turns around to face her, a smirk blooming on his lips again. Suddenly, he is close enough that his breath ghosts across her face and the tips of their noses graze one another; it’s barely a meeting, and yet it’s more than she could’ve ever imagined. “... I’m just checking.”

To shut him up, Clarke captures him in a searing kiss. He groans, dragging her bottom lip between his teeth; it’s demanding, it stings, but he tastes of licorice and mint. The flavor is deep, making her want _more._

In this case, _more_ is tearing off his blue t-shirt, which exposes a nebula of violet bruises on his abdomen that draw her gaze, but she doesn’t ask about them (not yet, anyway). His next breath is sharp enough to pierce the dense air. Swiftly, he brings her closer by the waist and chases her mouth, pouring passion into the few kisses that he can fit between tugging off her top: it’s silky and white, too delicate to be thrown on the ground. 

_Screw that._

When he lays her on the dry earth, she doesn’t care that the soil tangles in her hair or that the small, jagged pebbles cut into her skin because his eyes are aflame with want, and she loves it. She loves watching him catch fire. This slow burn has him planting kisses along her leg like flower seeds to see them bloom on her inner thigh. 

Though it makes her shudder, it’s not what she needs; if she lets him keep up this pace, she’ll be turned into a meadow before sundown. 

“Just do it, Bellamy,” she hisses when he folds up her Starry Night skirt. It’s her favorite one and it will never be the same after this. “ _Fuck me_.” 

To her awe, he decides not to fight her. Since they met, they haven’t done anything but clash like the soaring waves and the rough cliff’s edge. Of course, this is also a kind of clash, the way he presses against her entrance, hot and heavy, rubs himself against her slit. For the first time, colliding with him doesn’t make a dangerous spectacle; it takes her breath away, soaks her in blinding _pleasure._ Regardless, the first push of him inside her stings, makes her bite at the humid air.

Bellamy interlaces their fingers, pauses. “Are you alright? If it hurts...” Trailing off, he presses a tender kiss to her clenched jaw. “We don’t have to stop, but—”

“ _No,_ I don’t want to stop.”

He grins and rests his forehead against hers, just for a moment. “Remember to breathe, Princess.” As always, there’s a hint of arrogance clinging to his words, but it’s less glaring.

Now that they’re so close, the small galaxy of freckles across his cheeks is more visible than ever, and she chooses to focus on it while she tries to relax. She’s no astronomer, but she still aims to find the constellations on his skin. _The Big Dipper_ by the left corner of his mouth comes into view as the tension slowly seeps from her body. 

When he kisses the swell of her breasts, let his lips wander the valley between them, she maps the landscape of his back: Mountain chains of hard muscle, pools of sweat, dips, and crevices. His curly hair looks haloed under the sun (but she knows better), and there’s a scar above his upper lip. 

“Okay,” she breathes when the sting has finally dulled. 

“Okay.” 

After that reassurance, he thrusts again. To her relief, he doesn’t treat her like porcelain: His movements are hard, carrying enough force to make her thighs quiver, but the thrill of being fucked by him makes the colors explode behind her eyelids. Though the pain lingers, it’s not overpowering; it makes her blood pulse faster, as does the feeling of her skin rubbing against the uneven ground.

It’s a perfect mess, just like she wanted. 

There’s only one problem: _The sounds…_ They are lodged in her throat, about to burst out, and all that she can think about is Finn’s hollow laughter sticking to her bedroom walls. It’s not fair to Bellamy for a lot of reasons, one of them being what she’s doing to keep quiet with him. 

“Hey, um—” He stalls, looks at her. “Just curious— why are you biting me?” 

“Sorry,” is what she chokes out after pulling her teeth from his shoulder, but the apology is muffled by the breeze that makes the leaves tremble. 

Despite that, he hears her and shakes his head. “No, don’t be sorry. I asked you why.” 

Clarke worries her bottom lip, lowers her gaze. If there’s anything that she doesn’t want to discuss with the town’s resident brooding asshole, it’s this, but he deserves an explanation. “He laughed at me, at—” to distract herself, she brushes a stray, sweaty curl off his forehead. “—at the way I sounded.”

Bellamy’s jaw ticks, his dark eyes looming with instant thunder. “He can go to hell.”

Once he’s said this, he bends his head, making the shadows of the sunflowers glide over his face just before he kisses her, deep and tender. Though it catches her off guard at first, warmth begins to swirl in her chest. Then, as he thrusts again, he holds her gaze and _moans._ It’s loud and guttural, but it sounds genuine: _H_ _e’s not doing it out of pity._

Wetness gathers between her legs, making her whine. 

“Now, isn’t that hot?” he pants into her ear, and she shudders.

Heat floods her cheeks, so she hides her face in the crook of his neck as she nods.

“Screw him. Make those sweet sounds for me.”

After that, it’s easy; the most natural thing in the world, like waking up. Every time he fucks into her, his lips find a new part of her body. Scorching under the sun with him is the closest thing to magic that she’s ever known. She gasps, moans and whimpers against his skin, as much as she wants, smothering the shame so that it can’t make a home out of her chest. Bellamy doesn’t stay quiet either, his groans vibrating on her sensitive throat. 

Though his hips slow as he comes, he doesn’t let up. Cupping her ivory thigh, he rocks into her, presses his forehead to hers — and, if only for a moment — the universe falls silent as the heat between them softens her bones. But the feeling is fleeting. When the noise returns, she realizes that her body is sore from being on the rough ground, sore from sex. 

Of course, _magic isn’t real._ It has all but left her already, withered away... 

Then, Bellamy pulls out, leaves her, too. 

“Drive me home,” the words fly out of her mouth without permission, carrying too much vulnerability, fraying a bit at the edges. 

His brow furrows, but once his eyes have settled on hers, his expression softens. For a minute, he’s quiet and the only thing that she can do is watch how the ruby flares of the dying sun flicker in his dark eyes. 

When he finally says something, it’s the least expected: “You deserve better.”

The words rain down on her, make fractions of scenes flood her mind — _empty pill bottles, the shattering of glass against marble and too many tears, too many goddamn tears_ — before she’s had time to think about it, she’s crashing into him all over again, bruising his lips with a deep kiss. 

Unlike Finn, Bellamy doesn’t curse at her. 

He slows it down, effortlessly, cupping her chin. 

But the best thing is: He doesn’t ask her what’s wrong. Instead, his question is one that bleeds through the early evening, “What do you need?”

Despite the narrow space, he’s lying beside her, his eyes twinkling like stars in the twilight. Sighing, she brushes her fingertip across his freckled bicep and says, “I need to know something. Why don’t you tell people?”

Bellamy pulls a chunk of dry soil from the hair that frames her face, then replaces it with a small buttercup that he finds in the short grass. “What?”

“That you care.” 

She could’ve sworn that his eyes soften at her words, but he averts them too quickly for her to be certain; his attention is dragged lower, to her knee. “You’re bleeding.”

Tracing the top of the scrape that she has no idea how she got, he swallows hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob, and she has to fight the sudden urge to stroke his cheek. Instead, she offers him a small smile. “It’s okay.”

Still, when they have made their way back to the car, he tells her to jump onto the hood while he scrambles through the miscellaneous items in his glove compartment; she saw them before, and they’re a bunch of old mixtapes, notebooks covered in his scribbles, stories. Most likely, it’s a bottomless pit and there are worlds of his that she has yet to see; that she won’t get the chance to explore. Not again.

“Alright, here it is,” he announces before shutting the car door. 

Once he’s standing in front of her, she realizes that he’s carrying a mini first aid kit. If she knew him any better now, she would laugh, perhaps, but she can only stare as he carefully dabs the bloody scrape with an antibacterial wipe. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… good.” 

Despite the reassurance, Bellamy’s jaw clenches. “You’ll probably bruise, too, I—don’t like it.” Before she can think of anything to say, he’s moved on, digging his hand into his pocket. “Oh, you nearly forgot these.” 

_Her panties._

He smiles as he gives them to her, and it’s the lone thing that gleams now that the sun has died. She scoffs, but when he steps back her hand latches onto his of its own accord. Her mind doesn’t follow the strange action, scrambles for an excuse, yet the only thing that comes out is, “Wait… I need something else.”

His brow furrows. “Yeah?”

“I need to see your place. It’s only fair,” she says, turning up her chin to match her strength to his. 

As though she burned him, Bellamy pulls his hand back. “You’re not—”

“Not your _house._ Your place. Everyone has one, and this is mine,” is what she tells him, turning to look at the sunflowers. Soon, they’ll face east, waiting for their love to return in the morning. “You’ve seen it. Now, I wanna see yours.” 

Brushing a hand through the chaotic curls of his hair, Bellamy sighs, “So, you’re not done with me yet, huh?” For a couple of seconds, he leaves it at that, but then he opens the car door. “Get in or I’m leaving without you.” 

“Charming,” she mutters, even though she obliges. 

To annoy him she takes her shoes off in his car, except it doesn’t have the desired effect: he smirks at her before making a U-turn, and she glares at him. “Do you have a foot fetish or something?” 

“I don’t mind your feet, no, Princess. You hungry? We can swing by Wendy’s on the way.”

The simple thought of a creamy chocolate Frosty makes her mouth water, but she tries to downplay her interest, shrugging. “Whatever. You’re the one who’s driving.” 

Probably bored by their lackluster conversation, Bellamy turns on the car radio, which is hooked up to his Blackberry. She wonders why he doesn’t choose one of the pretentious mixtapes in his glove compartment, but when Hozier’s deep, subduing voice blasts through the stereo — _“With her straw-blonde hair, her arms hard and lean, she’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene.” —_ she can’t be mad at it. 

At the Drive-thru, he orders a Dave's Single cheeseburger and a black coffee, which is predictable, but she doesn’t expect that the cashier knows him: A boy, not older than sixteen, with sandy hair and lively eyes who says, “Here ya go, Bellamy.” Then, when he notices Clarke in the passenger seat, he adds, “Have a nice night.”

Before a feeling of revulsion can conquer her body, Bellamy says, “Oh, this isn’t what it looks like. She’s my sister’s friend—where’s her Frosty, by the way?” 

“Just a moment. They got something mixed up. Sorry.” 

Though it only takes a minute for them to bring her order, it feels like an hour; at least it’s enough time for her to frown at the bruises forming on her leg. This was her idea; she shouldn’t feel dirty, and yet it’s difficult when there’s a choir of internalized sexism ringing through her mind, berating her for having the _audacity_ to fuck two men in the same week. 

For the rest of the drive, her mind is a useless haze of blurred thoughts, but suddenly Bellamy turns off the radio, drowning its white noise. This makes her realize that they've stopped. Before she can ask where they are, he holds out his hand and, when she takes it, gently pulls her out of the car. 

“This is it,” he announces. “My place. Sort of.” 

Bewildered, Clarke looks around. At first, it looks like another world entirely; like he’s taken her to the ends of the Earth. Soon, however, the memories flood her brain and clog her throat. “I used to come here,” she croaks. “With my dad. Before the lake dried out... “ As she trails off, she feels his eyes drift to her, but she can’t meet his gaze. “We’d fish for tadpoles… have sandwiches.” 

“Oh.” 

Somehow, that single word is a thousand times better than an apology. Then, his thumb caresses hers, the touch lingering for a moment before he lets go of her hand. They sit on the old jetty, placing their food in front of them: Curly fries, the cheeseburger, her Frosty, and some ketchup. _A true feast and a remarkable view._

Clarke sighs, “What do you do? When you come here?”

He smirks, passing her a fry. “ _You_ haven’t told me what you do by the Tournesols. I know that fucking me isn’t the usual activity.” 

At that, she rolls her eyes. “It’s not hard to figure out. I paint, draw, listen to music, sometimes for hours. Now, why are you so full of shit, Bellamy?”

Choking on his coffee, he stares at her, his brow furrowed. “Excuse me?” 

“Well, you don’t actually smoke, for one.” 

A second of awkward silence passes before he asks, “... How did you know?”

She smirks at him as she dips the fry into her Frosty; noticing it, Bellamy scrunches up his nose, and it almost makes her smile. Almost. To annoy him further, she sucks the ice cream off, says, “I would’ve tasted it,” and watches his eyes darken. 

He swallows hard, averts his gaze to look at the muddy pit that used to be a lake. “Why did things go wrong between—”

Her jaw clenched tight, she cuts him off, “You know why. Being an asshole was more important to you than caring about me.” 

“I _called_ you, Clarke. After the accident. _You_ didn’t wanna talk to me!”

Lowering her gaze, she pulls at a loose string on her skirt. “I didn’t wanna talk to anyone.” 

Though it might be difficult for some people to understand, it’s hard to speak with broken ribs and a bleeding heart. Those days, every spoken word felt like the beginning of a tragic eulogy because that’s _exactly_ what it was for her: The world’s biggest funeral in a soulless, small town. At the actual event, she wanted to say so much, yet she couldn’t. 

Bellamy brushes his fingertips across her knuckles. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Squeezing her eyes shut, Clarke breathes, “Can we forget about it, please? I don’t—I don’t want you to pity me.”

“Fine.” 

While the silence stretches between them, expanding far and wide, she lifts her gaze to look at the only remnants of what used to be a joyful place: _The lightning bugs,_ glowing like levitating stars in the distance. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that he sees them, too, because he breaks the quiet, “When I was little, I’d made a wish every time I saw a firefly.”

“Why?”

At that, he smiles. “I was a kid, Clarke. Thought they would bring me luck.” 

After eating a spoonful of the soft ice cream, she bumps her shoulder against his in light teasing. “How lucky are you feeling tonight?” 

The corners of Bellamy’s eyes crinkle even though the rest of his expression doesn’t change. “Fuck, that was bad.” 

“It was?”

“Embarrassing,” he says, and she’s about to kick his ankle when his hand starts to play with the hem of her skirt, making her freeze for a moment; slowly, it moves beneath the silky fabric, revisiting the trail that his lips followed earlier. Still, he pauses just before reaching the band of her panties. “If you wanna seduce me, you gotta do better than that.” 

“Oh? I think I’m doing pretty well, but…” Biting her bottom lip, she swings her leg across his hips, straddling his lap. “You tell me again. Tell me how much I suck.”

His gaze darkening, Bellamy bares his neck to her like he’s awaiting the bite. When she drags her teeth over his pulse point, she intends to leave a bruise; one that he can look at with pride, perhaps, or awe. At least, it makes him groan and ignites the fire in her veins again. 

As his hand disappears beneath her skirt for the second time, she grinds against his leg. The roughness of his jeans pulls a gasp from her lips, and he mutters a curse to the night — “ _Fucking hell,_ ” — like she’s driving him mad. Maybe she is. 

Then, he yanks her panties aside, ripping them in the process. “Is this okay?”

“... You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head, his eyes serious. “Not the best timing, I admit. It’s still important.” 

Nodding, Clarke presses her thumb to the corner of his mouth. “I _want_ you.”

This soft moment passes; at the following one, she’s shuddering as his index finger traces her slit; the tremors course down her spine when he tastes the bit of wetness that he collected. Judging by the way his eyes fall shut, it must've been sweet as honeysuckle. Their lips meet as he slowly pushes his finger inside her, and her next breath hitches in her throat. 

Feeling her cheeks flare with heat, Clarke buries her face in the crook of his neck, keeps her breath close to his ear. “He didn’t want to—”

“Well, I’m not him.”

To her surprise, he doesn’t sound accusatory: His voice is low-pitched, gentle… _worthy._

For the first time in forever, she believes his sincerity. 

Bellamy doesn’t mind that her body shudders with every small wave of pleasure, cradles the back of her head to keep her secured against him while he rubs circles on her clit; she sucks at his earlobe to control her breathing, but it still emerges as desperate pants. She’s dripping all over his fingers, but he never did fear messiness. 

“I— _oh._ ”

“You don’t have to talk right now, Clarke,” he murmurs, letting his nose graze her cheek. 

By now, the pleasure is overwhelming; there’s no way to run from it, to conceal it, to be ashamed of it. It’s all that she wants and, at that one moment where he pushes her over the edge, it’s all that she is. Her breath is stolen as she becomes weightless, but he anchors her. “Sssh, easy.”

It didn’t occur to her that a few tears have escaped her eyes. Realizing this, she pulls back, still short of breath, to meet his tender stare. “I don’t want a relationship.” 

Of course, she doubts that she ever left him with any other impression. “Seems wise—”

“I want to feel _that,_ ” she clarifies, ignoring that her thighs are still quivering. “Again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the nice response to the first chapter! i hope you like this one, too. 
> 
> (see the end of the chapter for a content warning)

> _a 90’s soul with doc martens on_
> 
> _a step,_
> 
> _a step away from crying._
> 
> _— **way it goes** _

Bellamy puts the bite mark on display like it’s a masterpiece and the basketball court is The Louvre: The edges of it glimmer, Prussian blue and violet, under the sun every time the other guys make him bend over to protect the ball, every time he leaps off the ground to take a shot at the hoop. 

Though Clarke tries to focus on tracing wildflowers onto a blank page in her sketchbook, her gaze is pulled toward him like a wave to the shore. Watching him, the miles of lean muscle, flexing and shimmering with sweat, it dries out her mouth, so she takes frequent sips of her canned _Minute Maid Lemonade._

But it’s not enough to wash down the lust. 

By the time the game ends with Nathan Miller planting a victorious kiss on Bellamy’s forehead, her hand is trembling and the only thing she’s managed to sketch is the pistil of a poppy. 

Suddenly, her phone chimes as a message flashes across the screen:

(701)-175-4516

_You can’t stay away from me._

She replies: _I was here first, asshole_ — doesn’t mention that she was here at the same time as the dew at the break of dawn. Even though the phone number is unfamiliar, the vivid image of his smirk that accompanies the written words is not. He’s a hurricane, demanding her attention just to be empowered by it. As he throws a small white towel across his shoulder, Clarke turns her music up, the sound of Passion Pit sending vibrations through her hollow bones. 

When the song ends, she’s drawing the intricate details of poppy petals, but then a hand is pressed to her shoulder, causing the tip of her pencil to break. 

_Bellamy._

If she hadn’t already done it, she would bite him. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

At that, she scoffs, “Since when do we talk?”

“Since when do we _fuck_?”

Much to her dismay, he has a point. Maybe they do need to have a conversation. A real one. 

Looking around, Clarke notices that his friends have left and their surroundings are vacant aside from a couple of sparrows. As the birds sing to the blue sky, she walks with him to his car in the parking lot and gets in. 

Today, they don’t have anywhere else to go, but his hands still grip the steering wheel. When they flex, her eyes are drawn to his toned forearms that are exposed under the rolled-up sleeves of his red flannel. 

She can see every freckle, kissed by sunlight.

“You wanted to talk, so talk.” 

Bellamy takes his lower lip between his teeth; she has no control over the wetness that rushes to her core at the sight. Squeezing her thighs together, she bites back the urge to curse herself. 

Finally, he speaks, “When you said that you wanted to come like that again, did you mean with me or just in general?”

Praying that he doesn’t notice her quivering thighs or the wild blush in her cheeks, she murmurs, “With you.”

He shifts in his seat, looks at her until she has no choice but to meet his eyes. “Clarke, if there’s _anyone_ who makes you feel more secure than I do, who you’d rather be doing this with, you shouldn’t pick me... I know that things haven’t been great between us this past couple of years.”

“What does that have to do with sex?”

At her question, a smirk blooms on his lips, but it seems less sharp than usual. “I just need you to be sure, that’s all.”

“I am,” she replies, holding his gaze so intensely that she notices tiny specks of amber and gold in his irises. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Something flashes in his eyes, swift as the wind and, before she has made sense of it, Bellamy is kissing her: It’s messy at first, his hand tangling in her hair, their teeth clanking, but the thrill wakes her up, the sharp scent of sweat from his skin overpowers the taste on his tongue, enveloping her. 

_Maybe it shouldn’t turn me on so easily,_ she thinks as she peels the flannel off his shoulders. 

Bellamy growls into her mouth when she traces the bite mark with her fingertips. “That hurt, you know.” 

Feeling the curve of his smirk against her lips, Clarke teases, “Oh no, did I put a dent in your armor?” 

“ _Shameless,_ ” he whispers, bringing her into his lap without further warning. “I can play that game, too.”

Now that they’ve had sex, his body seems less like a mountain and more like a throne; it fills her with a sense of pride and power, sitting there. They make out until their mouths are swollen, making the kisses feel like bee stings. When the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe her bottom lip, she moans, and he draws back. 

“The backseat has more room,” he breathes, his pupils blown wide. 

In teasing, she lets her hand wander beneath his white undershirt to touch his abs. “For what?”

_(For him, between her thighs.)_

His lips roam the column of her neck, sucking at the most tender places as his fingertips follow the trail of forget-me-nots that she embroidered at the edge of the pocket on her favorite shorts. Slowly, he’s grinding against her center, but the soft material of his sweatpants doesn’t create much friction. She craves the sharp and rough; the rush of adrenaline that comes with it. 

“ _Bellamy,_ ” Clarke whines. “I need more.” 

His eyebrows shoot up in amusement, but he doesn’t hesitate: Popping the button on her shorts, he drags them down her legs and pulls at the lace band of her panties with his teeth; it catches her off guard, a small gasp flying out of her mouth. 

“How wet are you?” He asks the question as if the answer to it is as simple as how she likes her coffee — _with a dash of cream —_ but her brain scrambles to find an appropriate description while her cheeks burn like the crimson sky. 

In the end, she chooses a cop-out, telling him, “See for yourself.”

The thought of him assessing her arousal makes her heart pound against her ribs as if his fingers weren’t deep in her cunt two nights ago. Bellamy accepts the challenge without hesitation, pulling her panties off. After throwing them to the floor, he presses a chaste kiss to the scabs on her knee. 

When his fingers brush her mound, it strikes her how bared she is. In the sunflower field, he didn’t take her skirt off. She was covered still. Now, there’s nothing to hide behind anymore. 

And she’s _dripping_ for him, juices flowing between her legs. 

Her breath hitches in her throat. 

If he’s feeling greedy, for her taste or anything else, he’s concealing it well. He waits until her thighs part more, of their own accord, to touch her sensitive mound again. Then, he whispers, “Can I kiss you here?”

An invisible hand grips at her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs, but she manages to respond, “Um, sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

Despite the gentle nature of his words, there’s an aura of ‘ _Don’t bullshit me, Princess’_ clinging to them. So she stares at the ceiling as she admits, “Finn did it and I didn’t like it.”

“He went down on you?”

At that, Clarke scoffs, “God, no. He just—it was dry as fuck, okay?” 

Bellamy snorts out a laugh that pierces the heavy atmosphere. “Well, this won’t be. I promise.” 

Worrying her lower lip, she nods, meeting his gaze. “Okay. Go ahead. If you suck, I’ll tell you.”

He just flashes his radiant grin at her and buries his head between her legs, so that all she can see is a forest of dark curls. But she can _feel_ a lot more: His hot breath wisping across her sensitive skin, his nose grazing the top of her mound. To anchor herself, she digs her fingers into the smooth leather seats. 

The first kiss is gentle but not void of passion; he lets it linger, making her eyelids flutter. When she looks up, he meets her gaze for a moment, and the sight is awe-inspiring: Her thighs wrapped around his head like an ivory crown. “Tell me to stop, if—”

“Please don’t,” Clarke cuts him off, the words bordering on desperation. 

“Alright.”

It takes a minute for her to grow comfortable with the intimacy, to conquer the shadow of self-consciousness that’s creeping in her mind. Nevertheless, Bellamy is patient, doesn’t question the way she squirms a little at first as his lips wander toward her labia. By the end of their trail, his nose grazes her clit, and she gasps at the jolt of pleasure that comes with it.

His fingertips dig into the soft flesh at the top of her thighs before his lips close around the nub.

A broken moan escapes her throat and her back arches slightly off the seats, but he keeps her centered, bringing her down with a sweet kiss to her folds. At the sensation, heat bleeds through to her cheeks once again. Still, she doesn't’ have more than a few seconds to worry about any of it — the sweat clinging to her inner thighs, the state of her arousal, the fact that she hasn’t shaven in a week — because he licks into her… and _growls._

_Greedy._

She doesn’t mind. 

In fact, at the first brush of his tongue against her, she feels greedy, too, only for the rising sea of pleasure in her chest. With each second, she comes closer to drowning in it, her hand grasping for something, _anything,_ to hold onto when he sucks at her clit again. The chaotic curls of his hair are more inviting than the front seats, so she buries her hand in them. They slip through her fingers like black velvet; when he flattens his tongue against her, she gasps and tugs at them. If it hurts, he doesn’t seem to care about it. 

“Oh... “ Clarke whimpers, her lower lip trembling.

At the sound, Bellamy pauses, looks at her. “Everything okay?”

She blinks furiously to fight the tears that break through her eyes. “Yeah, it just, um… it feels good.”

Hiking her right leg upon his shoulder, he grins against her inner thigh. His mouth feels wet on her skin, making her jaw slacken. “Hopefully, that’s an understatement or I’m not doing well enough.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes, presses her heel into his shoulder. “Keep going, you ass.” 

Before his head disappears between her legs again, he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “ _Royals…_ ” but the tip of his tongue grazes her clit, and every single thought seeps out of her mind. 

He slows down a bit when her breath hitches. Maybe he realizes that she’s about to fall off the ledge, and he wants to prolong the inevitable, keep her hovering out of balance. When he finally picks up the pace again, stars glimmer behind her eyelids, and she feels herself stumble back, one step too far as the pleasure soars through her, intense and unforgiving. 

She’s weightless once again. 

In the distance, somewhere below her, she hears him breathe, “Wow, look at you,” and even though his voice is muffled, the awe bleeds through every syllable. While the haze clears in her mind, allowing her to float back to the present moment, she realizes that he’s drawn back. 

Bellamy pulls her towards him, guides her into his lap. Now, his body is less of a throne and more of a cliff’s edge that she clings to through the aftershocks. When the waves of pleasure subside, she meets him with a chaste yet curious kiss. 

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Do you wanna taste yourself?”

At some point, hopefully, she’ll be able to handle his crudeness without her cheeks bursting into flames. To play it off, she cups the jagged edge of his jaw, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, yet she still doesn’t taste much; the scent of sweat is too dominating, weakening her other senses, but then his tongue brushes hers. _That_ changes the game. 

The flavor is foreign and tangy: a hint of earth sprinkled on a mess of notes that she can’t identify.

“Amazing, right?”

Clarke shifts in his lap, thinking it over for a moment before she is distracted by the hard bulge that’s straining against his sweatpants and pressing against her heated center. “You clearly like it a lot. Now, what am I gonna do about that?” In teasing, she rolls her hips against his, drawing a groan from his throat. 

“Whatever the hell you want.”

She smirks. “Tempting.”

Crawling to the front of the car, Clarke opens his glove compartment. Once her eyes have fallen on its contents, darting around in search of a condom, she realizes that they’ve changed: The battered-up copy of the Iliad is gone, probably because she couldn’t keep her hands off it, and there’s a plastic container full of _Chupa Chups_ lollipops. She’ll remember to ask for one of those later. Finally, she finds what she was looking for and rushes back to him.

Before she drags his pants down, Clarke throws a glance over her shoulder. They’re still alone, the parking lot deserted: No one ever uses it during the day anymore, as people seem to prefer the newer one behind the mall. In recent years, this lot has become a designated space for renegade teenagers who sneak out of the house at night to get high. 

Once his erection is freed from its confines, Bellamy lets out a small sigh of relief, his head falling back against the window. Though she wants to feel smug about the reaction, she’s too distracted by the size of him. Amongst the sunflowers, she was too caught up in the rush and blush of the moment that she didn’t pay it any notice. Of course, it hurt, so perhaps she should’ve made the connection, but she didn’t and is left slack-jawed at the sight now.

“Clarke, are you okay?” 

Quickly, she shakes herself out of it. “Um, yeah.” 

Bellamy smiles, his eyes lit by rare kindness as he brushes his finger under her chin. “Give me the condom. I’ll do it.” 

As she watches him roll the condom on, fascination smothers the lingering fluster in her body. Finn had turned his back to her, shutting off her view, and in the field, she cloud-gazed while Bellamy took care of it. 

Not today. 

He’s thick and long, glistening a bit at the tip. Her thighs tremble in anticipation, craving the strain. 

Finally, he looks up, pulling her close again until she’s hovering above his hard length. A hint of doubt forces its way into her mind again, making her hands grip his shoulders, her eyes fall into the tenderness of his. 

_Don’t doubt yourself,_ they tell her. 

Taking a steadying breath, she sinks down on him, pushing as the sting burns through her. Bellamy’s hands encircle her waist, flex on her hips as if to encourage her. His dark eyes flash, his irises drowning in want, and she powers through the rest of the pain because the feeling of him slipping into her is brutal in the best way. 

Their lips clash in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue. The thrill that it sends through her bones is enough to dull the pain, and she takes the last inch of him, breathing heavily against his parted lips. 

“Good girl,” he drawls. 

She has no idea where that praise came from or why it makes her heart glow. 

Experimentally, she rises off his lap and moves back down, trying to thrust. In fairness, she has no idea what she’s doing. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about it, but he’s five years older and, for some reason, that makes her hyperaware of how new she is at… _this._

“You’re doing great,” Bellamy reassures her, hunger dripping from his voice. “I’ll help you, trust me.”

When their eyes lock, she drags her bottom lip between her teeth and nods. 

He keeps his word as long as he lasts, meeting her every thrust — shallow and deep alike — while keeping her steady by digging his fingertips into her hips, and she presses her palm to the car window. Still, they’ve barely found the perfect rhythm before he’s coming apart, muffling his loud moan against the crook of her neck. 

Clarke brushes her fingertips through the soft, sweaty curls at the back of his head, but he’s still swelling inside her and her face is hot from the fluster. 

“Fuck, uh—” It takes a second for her to realize that he’s stammering, that his hands are roaming aimlessly on her back. He clings to the fabric of her t-shirt, leaves a soft kiss at the swell of her throat before he pulls away, his eyes darting between them. “I need to…” 

Though he trails off, she makes sense of it. Ignoring the heavy strain in her thighs, she slides off his lap. To avoid wallowing in the sudden, empty feeling, she grabs her panties off the floor and climbs back to the front of the car. There, she fixes her hair and top in the side mirror. 

When he joins her, he’s put his pants back on yet not managed to cover up the light pink tint behind his freckles. 

“You doing okay over there?”

Bellamy leans against the headrest. “‘Course I am. Why would you think otherwise?” 

Smirking, Clarke replies, “You seem a bit flushed _._ ”

Naturally, she expects him to strike back with a smug retort along the lines of ‘ _We just had sex, Princess. It kinda happens,’_ which she wouldn’t be able to contest. Except, he runs a palm across his face and, to her amazement, _admits_ something, “I’m... embarrassed.” He glances at her, chewing on his bottom lip. “I should’ve lasted longer.”

Although she tries to, she can’t hold back a huff of laughter, “Damaged pride. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.” 

He glares at her. “This isn’t about _me,_ it—you were just getting into it, the pain was fading, and I just—well, fuck it.”

She knows that she should say something, but the words have seeped out of the car along with her smugness, and there’s nothing left for her to do except listen to the silence. The quiet between them is brought to life by the sound of his breathing, still ragged, and the beating of her heart like a bass drum — a deep, intense tune made just for this moment. 

At some point, he smiles, looks over at her. “How’s your sweet tooth?”

The corners of her mouth curve upward, too. “Screaming.” 

Grinning, Bellamy reaches across her to open the glove compartment and find two lollipops. Before she can even ask for it, he gives her the strawberry-and-cream one, makes do with the watermelon kind. Like a superhuman, he unwraps his own lollipop in record time, glances over to watch her struggle. “Need help?”

“What I need,” Clarke says, gritting her teeth, “is a damn crowbar. Who invented these things?”

He chuckles when she surrenders the piece of candy to him. “People who want to torture children at birthday parties. Lucky for you, I’ve opened a million of these for you and O before. We—”

“I know. 50 cents at The Valley Candy Shop,” When she says it, nostalgia shimmers in her chest, brings a smile to her face as he hands the unwrapped lollipop back to her: It tastes like childhood, sweet innocence, high-pitched laughter. 

For a while, they just swirl in the moment. Two adults, sugar, and yet another sunset. 

Suddenly, a question drips off her loosened tongue, “Why am I the exception?”

“Huh?” 

“To your rule.”

For a second, Bellamy just twirls the plastic stick between his fingers. If she didn’t know better, she would assume that he was suffering from a bad nicotine craving. “You’re not, really… You’re not Octavia’s friend anymore.” 

The truth enters her bloodstream like a poison, blistering her veins and making it hard to breathe. Her lower lip wobbles, so she bites it. “Were you waiting for that?” 

The sweetness of the candy doesn’t stand a fucking chance when the regret bleeds through to her pallet, bitter and overpowering 

“Hey, you approached me, let’s not forget.” 

Clarke scoffs, “Oh, and that punch you delivered to Finn’s jaw? You weren’t trying to prove anything?” 

At the question, his frown deepens. “No, not prove. I was making a statement.”

_Unbelievable._

“You’re so goddamn tough, Bellamy,” she hisses, her voice strained under the weight of sarcasm. 

When she reaches for the handle on the door, suddenly fuming, he grabs her other hand, mutters something about ‘ _fucking whiplash’_ before his voice gains strength. “He called you a bitch, okay? I—” 

Her heart drops to the bottom of her ribcage, but it’s too battered to break at this point. _That can’t be a good thing,_ and yet she has to pretend that it is. 

Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she rumbles, “Thanks for letting me know,” then yanks her hand back and leaves the car, biting back the urge to slam the door in his face. 

_Men are the fucking worst._

* * *

At home, Clarke thunders up the stairs and breaks through the door to her bedroom just to find his shirt under her bed. She should’ve gotten rid of the rag weeks ago, but it’s better late than never. Buried in her desk drawer, she finds the pair of fabric scissors that she used to make crop tops last year. Now, she uses it to cut the shirt into strips. 

_A bitch. Come on._ Her life is a bad teen movie. 

After gathering the pieces in her hands, she tosses them into the living room fireplace. Passerbyers outside are going to see the smoke from the chimney and think ‘ _The Griffins have actually lost it, lighting a fire in the middle of a heatwave.’_

They wouldn’t be all wrong. 

For a few minutes, she watches the flames dance. When the gray fabric has become charred, she pulls out her phone to send a text:

(BOOM! 💥):

**Are you free?**

**I would kill for a girls' night.**

In classic Raven Reyes fashion, her friend doesn’t reply, just shows up at her doorstep with a basket of essentials: Boxed farfalle, nail polish, and _Legally Blonde_ on DVD. 

“Why do men exist?” Clarke sighs, placing a pot of water on the stove. 

At the philosophical question, Raven flashes a radiant grin at her and offers a less-than philosophical explanation, “God fucked up.” 

“But God is a woman,” Clarke teases and wags a fork at her friend, who shrugs as she drizzles some dry oregano into the sizzling tomato sauce. Smiling, Clarke follows up with a bit of chili powder. 

“In that case, she still fucked up. Big time. Let’s pour one out for her tonight.” 

They eat their pasta as soon as it’s become al dente and is steaming on the plate, clink their cans of corner store 7UP together. As always, they watch the movie a third of the way through, repeating the most iconic lines until boredom takes over. Then, they switch to amateur manicures, laying out the different colored polish on the couch. 

She lets Raven choose her shade. After looking at her for a moment, she goes for the deepest scarlet: _Fire Escape Rendezvous,_ noting, “This is Queen shit.”

Clarke smirks, but it soon falters. 

“What did you do? After he hurt you?” 

Although she could’ve crossed an invisible line with that question, Raven defuses her worry. “Oh, I bought myself a new vibrator. Self-care comes in many forms and, as you know, he sucks in bed so I needed it.” 

After hesitating for a second, Clarke admits, “I’ve never had one.” 

A shit-eating grin spreads across her friend’s face. “You are a _baby_.”

“Am not.”

“Am too, but don’t you worry. I’ll help you browse the interwebs. Right now. This is an emergency.” 

Eventually, once they’ve dug through six different sites, they find a good one — hot pink, an ode to the renown goddess, Elle Woods _—_ that doesn’t tempt her bank account to self-destruct. They watch the rest of the movie, snacking on popcorn and crispy M&M’s, but as soon as the credits roll Raven has to rush to her late-night physical therapy appointment downtown. A dirt biking accident two years ago left her with chronic pain, a brace on her right leg, and an ever-burning fire beneath her skin. 

To a stranger, she and Raven might seem like two sides of the same coin. But Clarke knows where the difference lies. Watching as her friend wanders off along the twilit road, her bones ache for a bit of strength. Any strength at all.

So she looks at her painted nails and smiles. 

An hour later, she makes the terrible mistake of leaving her watercolors behind to search her mom’s bedroom for dirty laundry. Instead, she finds the broken shards of a wine bottle sprinkled all over the white carpet and the nightstand. Mechanically, she gathers them all in a garbage bag: The smallest ones tend to cut the deepest, so she’s more careful with those. 

It takes a while. It always does. 

Her hand shouldn’t still be trembling; the chills should have no effect on her skin. That is if she could get used to doing this.

She carries the bag outside to the big garbage can in the driveway. The lid creaks, making her cringe, and a gravelly voice tears through the night, “Clarke?” 

Of course, it’s just her name, but it’s never sounded more frightening. 

When she turns her head, Bellamy’s body comes into view, an array of edges and shadows, illuminated by the silvery glow of the street lamps. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

His brow furrows, his eyes zeroing in on the bag in her hand. If her arm wasn’t frozen in place, she’d drop the damn thing right now, pretend that it never existed, blame it on an optical illusion or some other desperate bullshit because she has to lie. 

He steps closer. Way too close. “Came by to apologize— _Shit,_ Clarke.” 

His eyes widening, he grabs her left wrist, which causes her to notice the thin trail of blood that’s made its way down her forearm, uneven like a vessel. Pulling away from his grasp, Clarke grits her teeth and finally drops the bag into the garbage can. “Just say what you wanna say, Bellamy.”

Swallowing hard, he stares at her. There’s a tiny, clear bead clinging to the corner of his eye. _A tear._ “Did… Did you hurt yourself?”

Her jaw slackens, her heart quivering at the sight of the panic that has drained the liquid bronze from his face. 

“ _No_ , I—I promise.”

Reaching out, Bellamy brushes her temple with his thumb; the callous on it speaks to her fragility, pulls a whimper from a throat. His arms wrap around her as a shelter in the middle of a storm that he knows nothing about, that he’s yet to notice. It’s not perfect, but at least it sets her tears free. 

For now, that’s enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: at the end of the chapter, clarke accidentally cuts herself on a shard of glass and when bellamy sees it he assumes that she did it to herself. but there's no actual self-harm involved.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my boy wells is here and i'm 🥺

> _glory days are gone_
> 
> _heaven knows we’re doing it wrong_
> 
> _— **betsy** _

Not much has changed since he was last here. Except, of course, for them. His thumb follows the tiny curves of her painted fingernails, then trails to the dark blue band-aid that he placed on her wrist. Eyes closed, Clarke listens to the sound of her own breathing, all rough puff, too damn aware of the mascara staining her cheeks as the same question keeps running through her mind, over and over: _Why is he still here?_

There’s nothing for him in this room anyway; it’s stuffed with her sadness, her chaos, her _art_ — he _shouldn’t_ be here. And yet, the warmth is radiating off his body, luring her in as much as the scent of his cologne. For once, it’s not overpowered by sweat, and she can identify pine, a hint of vanilla. Strangely, it seems to sink into her skin, soothe her racing heart. 

Another world takes shape behind her closed eyelids: A faraway forest where the birds chirp, reciting poems, and the water runs in springs peacefully, reminding her of everything that’s missing where she is. Right now. 

Eventually, Bellamy brings her back to reality, breaking the quiet with his gentle rumble, “Do you know anything about me, Clarke?”

She thinks for a moment, her mind still clouded. “... You love your family.” 

_Duh._ The president of The United States probably knows that about him. 

Worrying her bottom lip, she tries to focus, remember. Maybe that’s what he wants her to do, but she’s not sure that she can. So, instead, she goes down a different road, “I know that they recognized you at Wendy’s because you work there. Right?”

He lets out a sigh, his hand brushing hers. “Monday through Friday. 10 AM to 6 PM. Still, that’s not _knowing_ , Princess. That’s deducing based on available information.”

Clarke scoffs, “Available? Like you’ve ever told anyone in the world who you really are.” 

Finally, she glances at Bellamy, catches a glimpse of his frown, which is directed at the white glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. “Look, the bottom line is that we don’t know jack shit about each other. We never really did. I don’t expect you to tell me anything now.”

She has no idea how to respond to that and, for a minute, the silence roams between them again, but it feels less tense. Less like the walls are trying to smother them by absorbing the oxygen and replacing it with tears and confusion and the awkwardness of whatever it is that they’re doing, of whatever it is that they _are._

“Anyway, I came here to apologize. So...” At the corner of her eye, she sees him lick his lips. “—I know I shouldn’t have punched him. You don’t need me to defend you. Not in that way. Acting out like that on someone else’s behalf, it’s selfish. It’s toxic... Clarke, I’m sorry.” As he says that last part, the one that rattles even the most stubborn part of her, Bellamy shifts onto his side, the crisp comforter rustling with the movement.

Unable to beat the pull, Clarke mimics him and they meet at the center of the mattress, their eyes — ocean and earth — connecting. 

“Wow.” 

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. “Exactly how little faith did you have that I would come through?” 

“Well,” she says, her eyes darting to the dimple in his chin. “I bought my first vibrator.”

Admitting this to him doesn’t make her feel more experienced; it doesn’t help her feign maturity, and, in truth, it brings her back to the days of stealing her mother’s fancy perfume before middle school soda parties. Her cheeks have burst aflame and her skin is sizzling, but when she finally forces herself to look at him again, his grin is relaxed, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. 

“Good for you. You should get to know yourself a little better.”

Clarke frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

At the question, Bellamy’s grin turns crooked and he ruffles his own curls for a moment. “Um, you know—just, what feels good, what doesn’t. Explore what gives you pleasure.”

She’s puzzled when she notices the wild blush that has crept into his cheeks. “Well, I’ve already learned some things. With you.”

Of course, she’s also learned some things from Finn and they were valuable lessons, no doubt, but she wouldn’t have minded if they didn’t cause her pain. Quickly, she banishes the memories from her mind, focuses on Bellamy as he wets his lips again. “Yeah?”

“I like feeling your stubble against my thighs.”

Bellamy’s jaw clenches, his eyes darkening with rich temptation, but he seems to bite it back. “I like the glint you get in your eye when you really want something and you’re sure you’re gonna get it.”

At that, she smiles at him, just a little. “Like, when we were on the jetty?” 

When he nods, Clarke trails her fingertip along the vein on his bicep. “I love how strong you are. By the sunflowers, while you were inside me, I could feel the force behind every thrust. You don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

“‘Cause you’re not,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, which is flushed with heat. They’re not used to complimenting each other, so it’s a bit awkward. Though his nice words have nothing to do with personality, it’s still intimate: They haven’t moved an inch, but the space between them seems slimmer as if the sudden honesty has eaten away at it. 

_Truth is a kind of beast that leaves you exposed._ Vulnerable, even. 

Her voice skipping quickly over each syllable, Clarke asks, “What do you do at Wendy’s?”

“I flip beef patties and—”

Suddenly, her phone rings, making both of them jolt. She picks it up, flashing Bellamy the phone cover of Van Gogh’s _Tournesols,_ and an apologetic smile. “Hey, Wells! How is the Princeton life?”

Clarke has known Wells since they were both in diapers; they’ve grown together, but since he went to college last year their babbling has been reduced to weekly phone calls whenever he’s not drowning in an avalanche of giant textbooks and crumpled-up notes. 

His voice is clear enough for Bellamy to hear it, too, as he replies, “Summer vacation feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card, let’s put it that way. But I’ll be in Ark tomorrow morning. You wanna meet up or something?” 

Clarke’s heart leaps at the suggestion. “Are you kidding? I miss you so much, it’s crazy.”

“Are you slowly losing your mind?” 

“Bold of you to assume that I haven’t already lost it.” 

Her friend’s laughter is warm as a summer’s day, reminding her of better times, of when they used to swing side-by-side, trying to touch the clouds. Every time she finishes a new drawing, she sends a picture of it to him, and he’s transformed into an art critic with wonderful things to say about the hidden meaning behind the piece _,_ even if the only thing she’s done is try to immortalize the dying rose on her nightstand by etching it onto paper. 

After a moment of comfortable silence, Wells asks, “So, have you made a decision about college yet?”

As heavy dread carves its way into her bones, Clarke squeezes her eyes shut. “Can we—can we talk about it when you get here?” 

“Sure… is everything alright?”

Clarke hesitates for a moment, captivated by the sensation of Bellamy caressing her wrist before she replies, her voice softer than she’d like, “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

* * *

Wells arrives with the afternoon sun at his back and a Twizzler stuck between his teeth. As soon as her eyes fall on him, relief surges in her chest like a tidal wave and she meets him in the middle of the driveway, throwing her arms around his neck. He huffs out a bright laugh, swaying with her for a moment. 

Pulling back, he says, “You don’t wanna hang out here, do you?”

“Nope.” 

Instead, they go to the skatepark, lay his blue bomber jacket on the ground and lean against the graffiti-covered concrete wall. They open the cans of Fanta Berry that they bought at the corner store and soak in the sun. As always, Wells beams right back at it, glorious, but then he turns to grin at her, nudging his sneakers against hers. 

“How’s your love life going?” Clarke asks, curious. 

Wells groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What _love life_? I’m fairly certain it’s never existed.”

“Come on, humor me.” She bumps her shoulder against his. 

Sighing, he leans his head back against the wall, glances at her. “Okay, I’m kinda texting Raven. I don’t know if she likes me. We haven’t spoken since graduation, but...” 

Clarke senses her own jaw slacken while the myriad of teasing responses she had prepared in her mind evaporates. Quickly, she collects herself to say, “Raven? If she’s texting you back, then she’s at least interested in the conversations. She doesn’t have much patience for men in general.” 

At that reassurance, Wells smile grows to a grin, the dimples in his cheeks showing. “Oh yeah. I once watched her kick John Murphy in the balls for making fun of Jasper’s goggles.” 

As far as Clarke knows, Raven and Wells were in the same history class in high school, but they’ve never really spent much time alone. Still, judging by the way that he’s outshining the sun at this moment, thinking about her makes him happy and that’s all that matters. Raven can be a bit intimidating when you first meet her; with her perfect eyebrows, dagger glare, and frequent use of the skull emoji, but she’s fierce in the best way. 

Once both of their soda cans are empty, they switch to the Blue Raspberry bubblegum that they’ve been chewing since they were kids. They smile as it sticks to their teeth, nostalgia blooming in their ribcages. Then he looks at her, his deep brown eyes shimmering with curiosity.

“What about you? Has anything happened since you got rid of the douchebag?”

Clarke snorts, brushing some dirt off her knees. The scrape that adorns her skin from the sunflower field is almost healed. “Well,” she says. “I replaced him with another one.” Her friend’s brow furrows, making her elaborate, “I had sex with Bellamy.”

“Octavia’s brother? But—”

“ _T_ _wice_.” 

Wells is silent for a second before he deadpans, “Oh fuck,” charming a laugh out of her, but the sound rings hollow. He frowns. “I thought you hated the guy, like, viscerally.” 

“I don’t hate him, it’s… it’s a long story.” 

Nodding, Wells interlaces their fingers: His skin is warm, soft, familiar, and she feels her heart swell with fondness. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.” 

She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, pushing the tasteless gum against the side of her cheek with her tongue. “I don’t think he’ll hurt me, not like Finn did. With him, I had different expectations. I put him on a pedestal, thought he was perfect. I know Bellamy isn’t.”

 _But she likes that:_ The unpolished, the chaotic; she already tried to lose herself in the opposite, and it felt like a lie. 

“Does Octavia know?”

Pressing her lips to a thin line, Clarke shakes her head and tries to swallow the guilt. Instead, she accidentally swallows the piece of gum, winces. “It’s just sex.”

Afterward, there’s a moment of awkward silence, which makes her chest tighten, but then a grin conquers his face again, boyish, as his eyebrows wiggle. “Well… is it any good?” 

Clarke tries to elbow him in the ribs, except she misses, and he wraps his arm around her, poking at her burning cheeks before she manages to hide them in his t-shirt. His bright laugh strikes her chest like a beam of light, making her feel warm. He smells of Abercrombie cologne and the laundry detergent that clings to his clothes and she’s thankful that some things never change. 

* * *

This week, there’s a traveling carnival in Ark: a chaotic scenery of colorful lights, indulgent snacks, and games that were made for losing. Still, they choose to go there once the sun is setting and they’ve finished their Subways. After swimming through the ocean of people for an eternity, they finally reach the gelato stand. Wells orders hazelnut and vanilla, as expected. She surprises him by choosing lemon-meringue and _licorice._

His eyebrow arches. “A change of taste in that, too, huh?” 

Smirking, Clarke bumps her shoulder against his. “Are you questioning my decisions?” 

In truth, she can’t blame him. Historically, they haven’t worked out well for her. Maybe she should tell him about the rejection letter from UPenn that’s tucked away like a monster under her bed, or maybe she should ramble about her dwindling hopes of acceptance to the _Wallace Institute of Fine Arts._ Most likely, that’s a faraway cry, a pipe dream. 

The corner of his mouth tips upward, but to call it a smile would be pathetic. “I worry about you, Clarke. A lot.” As his eyes dart, she follows their lead until she’s struck by the sight of familiar curls, dark as the night sky. 

Her stomach twists. 

He’s sitting on a wooden bench, a plastic spoon stuck between his lips like a cigarette, and the girl next to him is laughing. Though the sound is warm, it makes her feel dead cold. Chills run down her spine because he looks _radiant_ , leaning into her.

_It’s over for the sun._

To distract her, Wells grabs her hand and attempts to pull her along, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes off the girl’s beautiful Dutch braid and her crooked smile that matches his perfectly. 

_How could she have been this stupid?_

Shaking herself out of it, Clarke throws her arm across Wells’ broad shoulders and follows him.

For a while, they have no particular destination, just wander while they try to catch up on their 156 missed days: He dated a piano prodigy named Fox for about three weeks before she had to go to Vienna for a big concert, but he assures her that they never really _connected;_ then he tried to help his dad manage the rehab facility, except it was too draining and he started falling behind on his studies, which was a complete disaster to everyone but himself.

He wins a cheap keychain of the Eiffel Tower for her by bursting balloons with a dart — “ _You’re going to Montmartre, I’m suing the universe if it doesn’t happen now,” —_ and tells her about his desire to switch majors. The problem is that the path toward law has been carved out for him since he learned how to walk it, and now that he’s realized that he doesn’t want to see where it leads, he’s fucked, left without any sense of direction. 

“Maybe you should try classics or something,” Clarke suggests, fiddling with her keychain. 

“Hmm,” her friend ponders. “... Maybe.” 

Rolling her eyes affectionately, she twists her body and reaches for her water bottle. Before she can turn back, the girl who was sitting next to Bellamy by the ice cream stand takes the seat across from her. 

She’s even prettier up close, with bright hazel eyes and full lips. 

“Hope you don’t mind. There are people _everywhere,_ ” she says to them, a hint of disgust in her voice that Clarke would find amusing if Bellamy hadn’t sat down beside her at that exact moment. Without even looking up, he splits a chocolate chip cookie at the size of his hand. Smiling, he gives the biggest half of it to his date. 

Watching them, Clarke tries to fake a smile, but her lips seem too tight. “Oh, we were just leaving. We want to ride the Ferris Wheel.”

Bellamy glances at her. “I’m afraid you’ll be waiting until the thing closes. The line is ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” says the girl. “I tried to force him to ride it with me, but I already forced him to come so I was willing to lose that battle—y’all want to try some of this?” Before they’ve had a chance to answer, she’s breaking her half of the cookie into two pieces that she gives to them. 

“Altruistic Queen,” Bellamy says, his smile softening as she brushes the crumbs off her palms. 

“Please ignore him. My name is Harper, and he’s an idiot.” 

“Hey!” In teasing, he pokes at her ribs, making her giggle; it seems melodramatic, that a sound so sweet makes her sick, but it does. Underneath the table, Wells’ hand finds hers, giving it a comforting squeeze, his jaw clenched tight with the anger that he feels for both of them since she’s too paralyzed by the blinding regret. “Monty owes me a pack of beer for this.” 

“Why? He didn’t make you go. You just didn’t know how to say no to me.” 

Bellamy smirks. “He and I have that in common, I guess. At least I don’t have to live with you 24/7.” 

“Asshole,” Harper grumbles, her smile unwavering. “Want me to tell Octavia that you don’t like hanging out with her friends?” 

“Depends on the friend.” 

At his reply, her heart leaps to the top of her ribcage, but it doesn’t fall back down; it stays there, floating, fluttering. To give herself time to recover, Clarke takes her first bite of the cookie, the rich brown sugar and dark chocolate melting on her tongue.

Even though she isn’t looking at him, she can picture his smirk in her mind. When she finally looks up, confirming its presence on his lips, his earthy eyes twinkle at her.

Like a true diplomat, Wells seizes the moment while the atmosphere is still comfortable and turns his attention to Harper, asking her where she’s from. Although he appears to be interested in the answer, Clarke knows that his main concern is trying to kill the last of her doubt. 

Harper, they learn, grew up in Minnesota but has moved sporadically around the country for the past couple of years. When she first came to Ark, she had no intention of staying. To her, this town was just another dot on the map until she bumped into Monty Green at the bowling alley one night. He was cute and funny and he let her _destroy_ him; they had nachos and, “the rest is history,” she finishes with a bright smile. 

After clearing that up, Clarke has calmed enough to realize that the sugary cookie has left an intense craving for a pretzel on her tongue. So, she drags Wells along and once they’re standing in line, she says, “I thought…” 

Wells’ phone rings. A picture of his dad flashes across the screen: Thelonious Jaha, former mayor, ascending a mountain as he proudly grins at the camera. Frowning, Wells mutters an apology and steps out of the line. Clarke follows suit, not quite interested in eating alone because this might take a while. 

As her friend wanders off to find a quiet place to talk, Clarke leans against the pretzel tent and checks her phone to see if her mom has bothered to send a text. _Of course, she hasn’t._

Biting her lip, she tries to overpower the disappointment, but it’s too dominant. Still, when she looks up, her eyes find _his_ like they’re a lighthouse in the roaring sea of people. 

He’s alone, but he’s striding toward her. Though she senses the determination in his movements, she doesn’t realize what it means until he’s boxing her in, his strong arms on either side of her head, and his mouth captures hers, rough, demanding. 

A strangled noise pushes its way through her throat, is muffled against his lips; the thrill is paralyzing, and yet she sobers after a moment, tugs at the chaotic curls of his hair.

Groaning, Bellamy pulls back, lets her catch a glimpse of his hungry eyes before he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Listen,” he pants, “There are too many people here, I just—”

Swiftly, he pulls on her arm, bringing her with him to the back of the tent where they are hidden amongst the evening shadows. Her heart is pounding, invigorated by the pure adrenaline that’s shooting through her veins. Her skin is sizzling, flames of hot desire burning beneath her skin. 

By some miracle, she manages to keep it all locked up. For now. 

“Wells is on the phone with his dad, so make your point.” 

Bellamy’s _point_ is made between another heated kiss and the bruise that he sucks onto the tender skin below her jaw: “ _I_ _n case you doubt if you’ve got me.”_

* * *

Though Wells notices her smudged lipstick, he’s kind enough not to mention it until he’s saying goodbye to her in the driveway. “I hope it was just a kiss. Don’t want my best friend to get in trouble with the law.” He winks, then walks off. 

As always, Clarke finds the house vacant, but at least there’s _something_ waiting for her: a small cardboard box, a package, and she doesn’t have to wonder for long to realize what it is. So she takes it to her bedroom. 

On a second thought, choosing the hot pink version was a mistake. She doesn’t even like that color, but the size is handy and it has four different settings and it arrived with batteries. Between her legs, it’s a bit intimidating. Clarke squirms on her crisp, floral bedding, trying to get comfortable. As time ticks by, she grows impatient because she’s nowhere near the stars that she was promised. _Maybe she should close her eyes, exhale…_

… And there he is: A silhouette that slowly takes shape behind her eyelids; he’s all over her at the carnival, lifting her off the ground, rubbing his rough jeans against her throbbing cunt, growling against her neck, cursing as he bites her lip. 

Desperate, Clarke switches between the different settings, trying to mimic the circles that he traced on her clit that night on the jetty, but it’s a pale imitation that can’t shock her system. Still, she refuses to give up, so she searches every corner of her memory, tries to invoke his voice, his words: ‘ _In case you doubt if you’ve got me.’_ Then, there’s that moment in his car when he called her a good girl and she felt glorious, invincible, even. 

But this is not the same. 

An eternity passes before she gets tumbles over the edge with a weak gasp. Perhaps she would be proud if she didn’t feel as if she aged ten years in the process. Frowning, she pushes the device aside and grabs her phone off the pillow.

(701)-175-4516

_My vibrator arrived._

_I thought about you._

_Didn’t like it._

The sight of her own message, standing alone, taunts her. So, like a fool, she calls him a minute after hitting _send._ He picks up on the second ring. 

“You’re the most impatient person I know,” he says, and she can hear laughter at the backdrop of his voice. “Do you give yourself time at all?” 

Taken aback by the question, Clarke feels her frown grow deeper. “No.” When a risky idea bleeds through her mind, she wets her lips, listens to the sound of his duvet rustling, and asks, “Can you teach me how you do it?”

“Huh?” 

She traces the edge of the mattress with her fingertips until it seems to dawn on him. 

Slowly, he begins to speak, “Thinking about you, I give myself time by loving the details. Like that pretty dress that you were wearing today. Periwinkle. It made your eyes pop and your curves, _fuck,_ they're gorgeous.” 

Clarke’s breath hitches, and she squeezes the phone tightly. _Maybe it’s his voice_ , not imagined this time, all dark and gravelly as though uttering the words are giving him pleasure. 

“And there’s the little mole on your left breast. It drives me crazy. _You_ drive me crazy, and I want you to know just how much… You have that vanity in your bedroom, right? Fit for a princess.” 

Even though she wants to scoff at him, her vocal cords have become useless, but her eyes drift to the piece of furniture that he’s talking about: It was a gift from her parents on her fourteenth birthday when she’d grown a passion for the art that she could create on her own face with a brush or a pencil.

Before she can dwell on the memory, Bellamy’s voice breaks through to her, “If I was with you right now, what do you think I would do?”

Taking her lower lip between her teeth, Clarke prays that she sounds unfazed when she replies, “You’d fuck me on it.”

“No, not on it,” he says, his voice dropping another octave. “Against it. From behind, so you could see us in the mirror.”

Wetness pools between her legs, and she shudders as her mind paints a vivid picture of the scenario; it unfolds like a movie behind her closed eyelids, making her blood pulse faster and her skin burn. _He’d smirk at her once she saw his reflection,_ she just knows it, _maybe he’d praise her, ramble dirty nothings against her skin._

When a needy whimper falls off her lips, she hears him take a ragged breath. 

Her chest sparks with a mix of confidence and curiosity. “... Are you touching yourself?”

“No, but I’m so hard for you,” Bellamy breathes. When her mind drifts, causing her to picture the bulge in his pants, her mouth goes dry. “Are you wet for me, Princess?” 

Clarke doesn’t have to touch her inner thighs to be certain; they’re slick from her arousal, trembling like leaves in the wind for him, but she doesn’t know how to say that, and she doesn’t have to because he continues, his voice raised just above a whisper, “I have you on speaker, but don’t worry. I’m alone. Your breath is filling my entire bedroom. It’s as if you’re here.”

“If I was,” Clarke says, ignoring the shudder that runs through her body. “... I’d ride you. Slowly. Drawing it out. Now, _that_ would drive you crazy, wouldn’t it?” Though speaking to him in this way makes her cheeks burn, it also feels liberating. She’s setting a part of herself free. 

“Yes,” the word seems to jump off his tongue, a desperate pant, and she can hear him inhale sharply through his nose. 

“Touch yourself.”

“Are you sure you want to witness that?” Bellamy asks, but she hears the tantalizing sound of him dragging his zipper down, of the button on his jeans popping open, and smirks to herself. Then, she puts him on speaker, her skin buzzing.

“Oh, please.”

“I don’t want you to feel neglected,” he murmurs. “You got that vibrator nearby?”

Glancing at it, Clarke frowns a bit. “Yes, but I—I’m not sure I’m good at using it.” Still, she picks it up, turns it on, switching it to the setting that she liked the best, the one that reminded her the most of the pressure from his calloused fingertips. 

Bellamy sputters an incoherent curse at the other end of the line, then offers a suggestion, “Use it on your skin first, on all of the places you love being kissed. Let yourself feel it.”

She takes his advice, bringing it to her jawline and trailing it slowly down the column of her throat, toward the swell of her breasts, across her sensitive nipple — that’s when her breath hitches for the first time, her eyes falling shut, and Bellamy responds with a low moan. Although she can’t hear what he’s doing to himself, her imagination works wonders as the vibrator moves along her ribs, and she sees him clearly: Eyes closed, jerking himself, his wrist moving fast and twisting at the base, his thumb flicking across the sensitive head. _At least that’s how she would touch him._

When the vibrator touches her inner thighs, her knees buck and her heels dig into the mattress. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers.

More than anything, Clarke wants to see the pictures that are on display in _his_ mind. 

_Does she look like art to him?_ As he unravels with her name on his lips, it dawns on her that she might just have heard the answer to that question. 

Suddenly satisfied, she turns off the vibrator and flips onto her stomach, kicking her feet and, for the first time ever, she likes the feeling of heat in her cheeks. “Bellamy?” 

A moment passes before he makes a strangled noise that paints a smile on her face. 

Worrying her lower lip, she asks, “Do you wanna come over?” 

“No,” he breathes. “I kinda wanna miss you tonight.” 


	4. Chapter 4

> _you were my coming down_
> 
> _and my solid ground_
> 
> _paramount_
> 
> _— **bayou**_

Clarke got her first period at thirteen in the middle of an art class, which disrupted her attempt at re-creating Monet’s water lilies with her oil pastels. Though her passion was still budding back then, it sucked that she didn’t get to finish the piece. When her dad picked her up, she moped about it, but he played _Here Comes The Sun_ in the car, opened a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts and found an old Bob Ross painting tutorial on VHS that they both _tried_ to follow. Sure, her mom came home later to remind her of the _basic_ things, but her dad was Helios — he pulled the sun out on a murky afternoon. 

Today, the world is a cloudburst. 

If Clarke had the energy, she would walk outside on the balcony just to smell the petrichor clinging to the air after two weeks of drought. She would let the rain soak her skin, cool her mind. Still, the persistent cramps of yesterday have left her drained, so she’s stuck to her bed, curled up in her fuzzy blue blanket as she idly flips through the channels. She scoffs at the Kardashians, their latest promo for _flat tummy tea_ still etched into her memory, and drools at the sight of chocolate cupcakes before digging her hand into the box of Pop-Tarts for the third time. 

She’s ripping the individual packaging when her phone chimes. Four sunflower emojis wink at her as the message flashes on her lock screen. After the phone call a couple of days ago, Clarke decided that she needed to save his number in her contacts. But he had to be incognito. 

🌻🌻🌻🌻

_I survived my shift. Are you alone?_

Clarke bites her lip, thumbs hovering over the keys. 

Since that night, his heavy breathing has been resounding in her mind. The fantasy that he painted a pretty picture of has become _her_ fantasy. She can’t do her makeup without blushing. But she doesn’t want him to know about that, or about how her vibrator hasn’t yet been tucked away, or how much she misses the fullness of him inside her. 

So, she replies with a sarcastic ‘ _congrats,’_ doesn’t answer his question. Then he calls her. 

“I wanna fuck you,” Bellamy says, not wasting his breath. The bluntness of the words renders her speechless, and she listens to the heavy rain in the background until he adds, “I can come over if you’re up for it. If you’re not, well—we’ll pretend this never happened.” 

Clarke wets her lips, tracing the hem of her t-shirt with her fingertips. 

The desire that's simmering at her core is hard to resist, especially because she doesn’t understand _why_ she feels the need to do so. This is her body, her fortress, and she shouldn’t wish to hide any part of it. That includes the most annoying, inconvenient thing of all. 

“I’m on my period,” she tells him, her voice lacking the strength that she envisioned in her head. 

“Oh,” he replies instantly. “Can I come over anyway?” 

At that, her heart leaps, but she still doesn’t want to sound too eager. “Yeah, but—” 

His car keys jingle, cutting her off and making a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “Do you need anything? I’m gonna stop by Target on the way.”

The last time she counted — which was an hour ago — she only had eight tampons left, but she doesn’t really want to ask Bellamy to buy a new box for her because that seems like a boyfriend favor and he’s not her boyfriend. So she assures him that he doesn’t need to pick anything up for her.

He still shows up with a large bag of Sour Patch Watermelon and a packet of Milk Duds. 

His smile is lopsided and the dark curls of his hair are sticking to his forehead, soaked by the rain. 

As he joins her on the bed, the wet skin of his arm brushes hers, sending shivers down her spine; the scent of his cologne surrounds her, alluring. For a minute, she feels breathless, but he pulls her out of it. Without even looking at her, Bellamy pours some Milk Duds into his palm and throws them into his mouth. 

Clarke narrows her eyes at him when he shakes the packet, making the pieces of chocolate rattle; the sound intensifies her sudden craving. 

Of course, _this is some kind of game to him._

Trying to snatch the candy from him doesn’t work; his reflexes are sharp, his movements shift as the wind, and he holds it out of her reach. 

“You didn’t want anything, remember?”

“Asshole.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, refuses to play along. But that resolve is shaken when curiosity sparks in her chest like fireworks, unstoppable. Glancing at him, she asks, “Should I say _please_ or something?” 

Bellamy smirks. “Would be nice, but that’s not the moral of the situation.” 

_Moral._ Annoyed by his teasing, she scoffs, “I just want some fucking chocolate, but if this has to be some sort of guessing game where you—” 

Suddenly, he’s grinning and handing her the packet, which leaves her dumbstruck. To conceal it, she pops a Milk Dud into her mouth, stares at the empty air in front of her as the chocolate coating slowly melts onto her desperate taste buds. She can _feel_ the small smile that blooms on her lips.

“You can tell me what you want, Clarke. Always.”

_Oh._

Heat flushes her cheeks, forcing her to lower her gaze. “Okay.” 

It takes her a minute to admit that she wants him and, even once she has, self-consciousness still looms in her chest like a dark cloud, drifting through her. But Bellamy quickly bumps his foot against hers, suggests that they do it in the shower — because it might be more comfortable _for her_ — which chases the sinking feeling away, replaces it with soft relief. 

While she sheds her clothes in the ensuite bathroom, Bellamy stays behind in her room. This was also for her sake because she wanted some time to rise her body, just in case. Once she’s double-checked for bloodstains on her inner thighs, she yells, “You can come in now!”

As the door clicks shut and she hears the sound of his belt buckle hitting the marble floor, it strikes her: _They’ve never seen each other naked before._

The air seeps out of her lungs, mixes with the warm water before it runs down the drain. For a second, she wants to melt into the tiles, but instead, she faces the spray and pretends to guide shampoo out of her hair as Bellamy pulls the shower curtain back. 

His presence dominates the small space immediately, the heat radiating off his body and sinking into her skin even though he’s not yet touching her. Finally, he leans closer to press a lingering kiss to her throat. 

Then his finger trails down the length of her spine; it’s featherlight but leaves her shuddering for _more._

“If you regret letting me come in here…” He presses his lips to the back of her ear. “If you’re not ready—”

Clarke pulls herself together and faces him before he can finish the sentence. 

His full lips part. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she says, biting back a grin as confidence sparks in her ribcage. Still, she gives him a quick once-over, her gaze lingering on his hard cock that stands proudly between them. “But I think I’m fine.” 

At the reassurance, Bellamy seems to collect himself, lifting the condom that he’s holding between two of his fingers. Though it would be easier to let him deal with it, her curiosity is too powerful, bringing her to ask if she can do it this time. It’s not difficult, just a little awkward… until her hand stops at the base of him, and she recognizes the flames that have ignited in his earthy irises. 

His jaw is sharp and clenched. 

Without warning, he crowds her against the cool tiles next to the spray, licks into her mouth. Clarke has barely had a chance to react before he grabs her thighs, his fingertips digging into her soft flesh as he lifts her off the ground. 

Her breath hitches, a gasp tumbling from her lips.

“Hold onto me,” Bellamy murmurs, and she locks her arms around his broad shoulders, wraps her legs tighter around his waist. “You okay like this?” 

“Yeah.”

Tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear, Bellamy smiles at her, his nose brushing hers as he hikes her up a little higher, makes sure she’s steady. When he finally pushes into her, it feels… _different:_ There’s no persistent sting there has been before, and yet her walls seem overly sensitive and tender as they stretch to accommodate him. 

“Wait…” she pants, heat flooding her face. 

Bellamy pauses, brushing his thumb along her right eyebrow. “Does it hurt?”

“No, I just—I need a moment.” 

Blushing hard, Clarke rests her chin on his broad shoulder and tries to grow used to this sensation, to grow _into_ it. She takes a few, calming breaths. He nuzzles her cheek, patient, even though his arms are trembling a bit. 

Noticing his strain, she nods and digs her heels into the dimples above his ass. “It’s okay, you can move.” 

Before he thrusts, Bellamy captures her lips in a gentle kiss. The movement is gentle, too, almost as if he’s testing the waters, which is unusual; he’s the type of man who always leaps in head-first, or, that’s what she thought until now. His lips quiver slightly as he cups her ass, pulling her even closer. Then, he bends his knees and drives into her again, swallows the broken moan that it tears from her throat. 

His back is slippery from the hot water, so she clings to him like he’s an anchor, holding her down. In a way, he is, because if it weren’t for his strength, her spine would be rubbing against the tiles. But he keeps her locked in place, resting his forehead against hers as he pants. Every time his hot breath ghosts across her wet skin, she feels herself tremble for him. 

“ _Bellamy._ ” 

“You still alright?” he asks, his voice gruff from pleasure as he kisses a lazy trail along her jawline. 

Clarke nods, even though she’s a bit overwhelmed by him, _everywhere_ all at once; he’s moving inside her, hitting a tender spot that makes it seem as if he’s a part of her, a part of her that recognizes how she deserves to be treated, how she deserves to _feel._ He’s warm and strong and he’s got her right here, present, living. 

_Loving._

When the bliss comes, it doesn’t crash over her; it’s not violent or sudden, but it still leaves her shaking. Tears gather behind her closed eyelids as she pants through the aftershocks. They pulse through her body while Bellamy presses his lips to her shoulder, her neck, her cheek, and nose. Moments later, he falls apart, too, but she’s so dazed that she barely feels him swell inside her. 

In the end, she is pulled down from the high by him shifting a little on his feet. 

His expression is softer than she’s ever seen it, and a realization dawns on her: she wants to remember this. She _will_ remember this. 

“I have to pull out—”

Clarke whimpers in protest, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. 

“Hold onto me tightly, okay?”

Digging her fingertips into his shoulders, she keeps herself latched onto him, and he moves one of his arms to keep the condom in place as he slowly leaves her. The sudden emptiness makes a rogue tear roll down her cheek, so she’s thankful that he’s preoccupied at the moment. Once he’s dealt with the condom, however, he steadies her while she reconnects with gravity. 

_… Gravity is a bitch._

Blood drips from her onto the wet tile, and she’s _mortified,_ but Bellamy just cradles her face, bringing her in for a deep kiss. His fingers move through her hair, smoothing it down. When he draws back, her cheeks are flaming. At least she’s caught her breath.

“Um, can I have a minute? I—I wanna—”

“Sure,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

After he’s left her alone in the shower, Clarke decides to wash her body and hair. She takes her time, massaging shampoo into the roots and covering her skin in Watermelon Lemonade soap. To make sure her skin is soft, she applies the matching body lotion as well. When she finally feels clean enough, she turns off the water and pulls back the shower curtain to a surprising sight. 

Neatly folded on the soft rug is a pair of pajama pants, her polka-dotted boyshorts, and _his_ t-shirt. He’s also left a tampon for her on top of the bundle.

Clarke smiles. 

When her heart swells, she doesn’t mind it. 

Dressed in fresh clothes, she leans against the door frame. Bellamy’s sitting on her bed, obviously shirtless; somehow, his smile looks brighter that way. He seems younger, too. “I hope you don’t mind. You can put on something else, I just… I wanted you to be comfortable.” 

“No, I like it. Thanks.”

When she crawls onto the bed, he slides away from the headboard to lie next to her. He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, and she blinks as he pulls back because it dawns on her that they’ve never had a moment quite like this before. So far, they’ve been all rush and heat, bound together by loose strings. Something is different now. Or maybe, that idea is an illusion conjured up by the hormonal chaos in her body. It’s too bad that it makes her want to be closer to him, to touch his skin, to soak in his warmth. Because she can’t fight it. 

“Bellamy,” she mutters. “Can we, um… cuddle?”

The word sounds so strange when it falls off her lips, as though she just said something foreign, but _whatever._ In the sunflower field, he told her that she deserved better than being dropped off at the side of the road right after he fucked her, and if he truly believes that, then… 

He smiles at her, his eyes twinkling. “Come here.”

Scooting closer, Clarke finds a perfect nook against his side, and she can’t resist the sudden desire to press her lips to his freckled shoulder. He makes a soft noise, trails a fingertip down her arm; it leaves goosebumps in its wake. After what happened in the shower, she feels delicate as a flower petal, sensitive to his touch. 

“I kinda wanna talk about it,” she says. “My orgasm.” By some miracle, she manages not to blush. 

Bellamy hums and looks at her, his eyes tender.

Licking her lips, Clarke starts, “It surprised me. I didn’t expect to, um, _get there,_ because you weren’t—I mean, you didn’t do anything special.”

“Ouch,” he teases, his lips spreading to form a bright grin. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well… What _do_ you think made you come then?”

Now, heat creeps into her cheeks, but she keeps their gazes locked as she replies, “I don’t know, um. I guess the angle was good. Like, really good. And I felt… _safe_ and warm and appreciated—that’s all it took.” 

_Maybe he did do something special, after all._

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, just tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. When his finger finds her chin, gently brushing the skin beneath it to find the bruise that he left at the carnival, the truth spills out of Clarke’s mouth, “It was amazing. I had no idea it could feel like that.” 

“You’re not used to being appreciated, huh?”

Her heart lurches, and the tears are there immediately, threatening to break the shield of her eyes. But before they can show, he brushes his thumb across her bottom lip and says, “You deserve more than that. You deserve to be worshipped _._ ”

At first, the words rattle her, but then she remembers that they’re not supposed to, so she shakes herself out of and teases, “Bet you say that to every woman who’s been in your bed.”

Bellamy’s eyes darken. “If you’re trying to trick me into saying ‘ _you’re not like other girls’,_ I’m sorry but that’s not going to happen. I want everyone who’s willing to have sex with me to feel special even though I don’t want feelings involved.” 

Clarke feels relief flicker in her chest at his words. When she smiles at him, his expression softens. He must feel relieved, too, that she’s not asking for more of him. She brushes her hand along his arm. “Do you offer your shirts to everyone, too? How many have you lost?” 

“I always ask to have them back. I know it might sound weird but I’m strangely attached to my shirts. I spend a long time sifting through thrift shops to find the most comfortable ones.” 

“I once bought a turquoise Aloha shirt for my dad in a thrift shop. He wore it every summer.”

Before she’s had time to process them, to search them for emotions that she doesn’t want to feel, the words have jumped off her lips. Their departure leaves a tight lump in her throat, which she can only battle by changing the subject, shifting the attention away from herself.

Forcing a smile, she toys with a stray curl by his temple. “Are you sure there isn’t _anyone_ who deserved to keep your precious shirt?” 

Somehow, she finds it hard to believe that someone can be as detached as he seems to be when it comes to sex. Though it’s mostly just her being cheeky, trying to tease him, he’s got her feeling curious. 

Bellamy worries his lips. “There is, uh, one person who still has it.” 

Clarke stares at him, wondering… 

“What?” he asks, and she doesn’t miss how his voice cracks under the weight of a single syllable. 

Careful, she lets her eyes settle on him before she says, “It’s just… You said ‘person’, so—”

“—It’s Miller.” 

Though he blurts it out, Clarke notices the frantic tremble in his voice. When he shifts, she gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and tries to catch his fleeting eyes all the while doing her best to conceal how much it surprises her. 

In the end, she fails. “You two…?”

“Yeah...” Bellamy breathes heavily. “Once. Last year. We—” Cutting himself off, he squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw clenching. 

To calm him, Clarke draws random patterns on the back of his neck with her fingertips. “You can tell me about it if you want to.” 

He considers it for a moment, his eyes wide and gentle, _vulnerable._ She wonders if he’s going to make her promise to keep it a secret, but he doesn’t. 

(Some things don’t need to be said, after all.) 

Then he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “We were at a bar one night. Just the two of us, because we wanted to watch a football game. But the game was boring, so we got drunk instead. Anyway, I… I reacted differently to the alcohol than usual. I got emotional, like _really_ emotional—” He huffs out a nervous half-laugh, “—And we went outside to talk, sat on the curb. He was right here, as always, just listening to me complaining, but I don’t think he fully understood that I was—”

His jaw shifts and his face writhes as he lowers his gaze a bit. When he speaks up again, his voice is trembling, “I was so _confused_ and sad and frustrated because I just—I really wanted him... So I kissed him.” Clarke’s heart swells as he smiles, even though it only adorns his face for a second. “We went back to my place, and then it happened. And it was great while it was happening, I loved it, but when I woke up the next morning and I saw him, it—I saw my best friend of _seventeen_ years, just lying there and realized that I couldn’t lose him. Never.”

A lone tear rolls down his freckled cheek, an ode to the soft quivering of his bottom lip; she wipes it away with her thumb. 

“But I’d been _stupid_ enough to gamble with our relationship because I needed answers about myself, and—I was terrified that he wouldn’t understand. I’m so goddamn lucky that he did.”

“And you gave him your shirt.” 

Brushing his fingertip against her earlobe, Bellamy says, “I wanted him to know that, even though I didn’t want things to change between us, it meant a lot to me, you know? It still does. I still think about it.” 

His eyes are full of glistening tears, but the smile on his lips seems genuine and _rare_ like a diamond in the rough. 

Then he flips onto his back, stares at the fake stars on her ceiling. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows and softness to his silence. Slowly, he starts to speak again, “I guess I’ve always known, but I didn’t always care. In kindergarten, I had crushes on boys, held hands with boys, convinced some of them to go on faux dates with me in the sandbox…”

Clarke chuckles, watching as the memories pull his lips into a smile. 

“When I got older, I learned what homophobia was and decided that it was just another thing that would complicate my life, so I spent my teenage years ignoring my attraction to anyone who wasn’t a cis woman. As far as the world was concerned, I was straight.” 

“Bellamy—” 

“I _know._ It was unhealthy and damaging, but I’m kinder to myself now.” Once he’s said this, he shifts onto his side, smiles as their foreheads touch. “It’s a slow process, though. I haven’t chosen a label yet, and I don’t know if I ever will because I’ve kinda come to accept that it’s just... fluid. Like, some days all I think about is guys, but it changes constantly. Lately, I only think about you.”

Those words make warmth swirl in her lower belly. Grinning, she rolls on top of him, the tips of their noses meeting as she jokes, “So you’re saying that _I’m_ your sexuality?”

Bellamy beams, a boyish glint in his eye. “Currently, yes.” 

She has no idea how they came to be in this universe; in this new dimension, their atoms appear to have split, changed their mold. Now, _here,_ it feels like the most natural thing in the world to laugh against his lips as she kisses him, sweet and tender. Bellamy responds with a low hum, burying his fingers in her hair, his free hand roaming on her back until it slips underneath her t-shirt. _His_ t-shirt. 

” _Goddess,”_ he whispers into her ear, the words dripping with deep passion and making her shiver. 

It doesn’t take long for him to grow hard against her and, when he does, she slides off his chest to dip her hand into his boxers. Though she has no idea how to give a handjob, she’s imagined doing it quite a few times as she reveled in the soft vibrations between her legs late at night, yearning for pleasure.

_She can do this._

“This is okay, right?” 

“Yeah,” Bellamy breathes, his cheeks coloring when she brushes her knuckles against him. 

Dragging her bottom lip between her teeth, Clarke grabs him and tries to remain unfazed as the heat of his skin seeps into her palm. While she jerks him, she keeps the movements fast, twisting her wrist a little at the base and, to her joy, it reduces Bellamy’s breath to ragged puffs; his brow furrows, his jaw slackening and lower lip trembling. 

He leans in to press his mouth to her throat as the first broken moan escapes him.

Then, his phone rings on her nightstand, the tone loud and rude.

Groaning an apology, Bellamy pushes her hand away, and she tries to swallow the bitter disappointment when he picks up. 

“Hey, O. I’m at Murphy’s… _Fuck_ , that’s right.” He squeezes his eyes shut as Clarke hears incoherent scolding at the other end of the line. “I completely forgot. You don’t need to tell me, I know I’m an idiot… No, I’ll be there as soon as I can, alright? Tell Mom that I’m sorry. Bye.”

“What was that?” Clarke asks, her chest feeling tight. 

“It’s _barbecue night,_ ” he explains, looking at her apologetically. 

“Oh, that’s today? Who’s coming?”

At the question, Bellamy smiles, but it doesn’t put sparks in his eyes this time. “It’s just us. We never really had other guests besides you guys.” 

For a moment, the quiet falls between them, and Clarke is left to chase away another swirl of memories in her mind: Her dad laughing out loud under the sun, offering her the last of his fries, asking her mom to dance to the cheesy melody of Elvis Presley’s _Can’t Help Falling In Love._

But then Bellamy lights up, shining brightly enough to dazzle her mind. “Hey, do you wanna come?”

“I—” _Fuck, she wants to say yes._ “—I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re not supposed to be on speaking terms, remember? Besides, Octavia hates me.” 

“But my mom loves you,” he counters, and it hurts a bit that he doesn’t deny her last statement. “I bet that if you just _happen_ to walk past our front yard as we’re folding out the chairs, she’ll invite you. Come on, I don’t want you to eat Kraft Mac & Cheese for dinner. I’m making something special tonight, and I want you to taste it. _Please,_ Clarke.” 

In truth, she has no idea where his sudden excitement comes from, but it’s irresistible. 

She smiles, uncertainty still lingering in her chest. “Okay.” 

Before he leaves, Clarke finishes him off, contending that he can’t show up to his house with an erection. As he spills into her palm, his cheeks flush, and he sputters a low curse. His cum sticks to her fingers, and she always thought it would be gross, but it makes her chest glow with pride. 

She leans against the headboard, struggling to search her nightstand drawer for a tissue while not taking her eyes off him as he pulls his jeans back on. Once she remembers that she’s wearing his t-shirt, she quickly wipes her hand clean and gives it back to him.

His eyes linger on her chest as he takes it. “I’ll text you when it’s time for you to, you know, show up. Coincidentally, _of course._ ” 

“Of course,” she repeats, winking at him. 

He chuckles on his way out of her room. 

* * *

Clarke slips on her favorite dress, a cream-colored one with big magenta and cherry roses on the skirt; applies some rose-gold lipstick, blushing in her vanity mirror once again. She’s not sure what Bellamy meant when he said he’d fuck her ‘ _from behind,’_ but if it is what she thinks, then…

Shaking the fantasy from her mind, she pulls her favorite jean jacket over her shoulders and leaves the house. The summer air is humid and the ground oozes the soothing scent of petrichor, the lasting mark of heavy rain. Because the Blake residence is just a few houses down the street from theirs, Clarke sits on the old swing in her garden until Bellamy’s text flashes across her screen. 

🌻🌻🌻 🌻

_Start walking._

Her heart is pounding, about to burst out of her chest as she reaches the bungalow. Reminding herself not to be _obvious,_ she keeps up the pace and looks straight ahead, praying that Aurora notices her before it’s too late. 

“Wait... _Clarke_?”

The relief soars through her chest, but it’s not pure; it carries a lot of guilt that she has to push down as the brunette, willowy woman puts a white fold-out chair on the lawn and walks to the other side of the picket fence to greet her. Although Clarke had no particular expectations for this reunion, she knows that didn’t expect a _hug._

Aurora’s hair smells of pine, just like Bellamy’s. It makes her heart ache a bit. 

As she draws back, she says, “Oh, it’s been forever since we’ve seen you. How are you—? No, wait, actually—Do you wanna join us? We were just about to have dinner.” 

Though Clarke knows that it’s not a part of her and Bellamy’s scheme for her to try to brush off the invitation, but as she glances to her right she’s pierced by a pair of crystal blue eyes, so she shakes her head. “Uh, I’m not sure, I—”

“Is your mom home? She can come, too.”

“No, she’s… she’s not, but I don’t wanna trouble you, so—” 

“It’s no trouble, Sweetheart.” Clarke almost gasps at the sound of a nickname that she never hears anymore. “Octavia can set another plate.”

“I can, but I won’t,” is the mumbled response. 

“Hey, that’s not—”

At last, Bellamy says something, “I’ll do it.”

Clarke’s eyes are pulled toward him, skipping over Octavia: His arms are crossed over his chest, and there’s a frown etched onto his lips. For a second, she entertains the ludicrous idea that the shift in their relationship over the past week has been a product of her vivid imagination, but then her lips recall the tremors of his laughter in the middle of their kiss, and she feels better. 

If she weren’t yet convinced that his coldness is a facade, the last of her doubt dies as they sit down outside to eat, and he doesn’t waste a moment, nudging his foot against hers underneath the table. 

She fights a small smile by digging into her baked potato.

Then… 

“How’s your mom, Clarke? I haven’t talked to her in ages.” 

Swallowing, she tries to meet Aurora’s gaze, but she gives up at the halfway point, lowering her gaze again to stare at the bottle of mustard. A moment later, it’s ripped from her line of vision by Octavia, who pours some onto her plate. It forces her to reply, “She’s fine. She just works a lot. Double shifts on Fridays.”

_And the other days, too._

Her stomach twists. Suddenly, the delicious sweet corn on her fork looks like pebbles, impossible to swallow. 

“Oh. So, do you cook dinner for yourself?” 

At the question, Clarke forces a smile; it feels as though it contorts her expression, and she hopes that isn’t actually the case. 

“Most nights, I just order take-out. This is a _feast,_ ” she says, her eyes darting across the table, which is adorned by plates of delicious food: Hot dogs, beef patties, chicken tenders, three different salads, four different kinds of potatoes, and an ocean of dressing. 

Still, there’s also a pot of something that clearly hasn’t been on the grill, but the scent of it is enticing: sweet and rich with an array of spices that she can’t identify, but it’s piled onto Bellamy’s plate, which means it must taste as good as it smells. 

Curious, she asks, “What are you eating?” 

He twirls his fork between his fingers, glancing at her. “Sisig. A Filipino dish.”

As the corner of his mouth twitches, she figures that he’s holding back a soft smile. It makes her heart feel warm, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she pours a small mountain of rice onto her plate and covers it with the dish, which seems to be made of different kinds of meat, chili peppers and onion. 

It tastes _amazing,_ the flavors and spice seeping into her tastebuds; the perfect combination that makes her feel warm. Her mouth waters as she eats, happy that she found a good excuse not to talk. Sadly, it doesn’t last forever, as fullness creeps in on her. When she pushes her plate away, it’s as clean as is possible.

“At least someone appreciates my cooking,” he notes. 

“Hey, I had a huge plate for lunch,“ Aurora reminds him, and he grins at her until she turns her attention back to Clarke. 

“If there’s anything that we can do to…” 

Quickly, she shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, we’re fine.” Even after saying this, she feels that she has to do _more_ to fake it, so she wields all of her strength and adds, “My dad used to love these nights, said it was the best food he ever got, which is probably true because Mom sucks at cooking and he—he was never home for…”

Her heart bleeds from an unhealed wound. The pain blurs her vision, makes her feel light-headed. 

She doesn’t hear the rushed apology that flies from her mouth. Not really. It feels as though the word is spoken by someone that isn’t her, by someone who should’ve died eighteen months ago.

Locked away in the bathroom, she grips the sink and tries to focus on its coolness. She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping that it will help, but haunting images bleed through to the surface of her mind — _the_ _windshield splintering, the blow to her chest, the curve of his last smile morphing into something so horrid_ — and she gasps for air, opening her eyes. 

The violent trembles threaten to make her feel sick, the lack of color in her face is ghostly, and she digs her fingernails into her palms — “ _Breathe, Baby. Oh, my baby. You’re still here.” —_

Barely. 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door. When she opens it, she expects to see Bellamy. Maybe Aurora. 

Not Octavia. 

At first glance, she looks genuinely worried, her blue eyes soft with confusion, but then Clarke blinks and it’s as if the tenderness was never there: Her jaw is clenched, her gaze thundering as she grips her arm. “Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”

“I—”

When Octavia’s eyes narrow, the weak excuse drowns in Clarke’s throat, and she can only watch as her former best friend stares at her. “Wow, Clarke. What a nice lotion.” 

It’s not a real compliment. Real compliments don’t drip with poison. Her grip tightens until it becomes painful.

Glancing to her left, Clarke notices Bellamy looking at them. He’s carrying the bowl of sweet corn from outside, his expression hard. “O, let go of her _. Let her go._ ” 

Octavia shoots a glare toward her brother before turning back to Clarke. “Finn is right. You really are a bitch.” 

“Octavia!” Bellamy barks before the words have fully landed, but his sister only scoffs, then releases Clarke’s arm to disappear up the staircase, and she’s left feeling _numb,_ cold, until the tears start to burn in her eyes. 

“ _Mom,_ ” he says, insistent, when Aurora appears in the kitchen doorway, sporting the same grave expression as him, but she mumbles that it’s best to let Octavia cool off before scolding her.

His eyes soaked in gentle worry, Bellamy steps toward Clarke, and the narrowing proximity between them is enough to make her tears flow. Still, when he cradles her face in his warm hands, she tries to take a step back, fearing what his mom might think, but he shakes his head at her as his thumbs brush the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Hey, I’m not gonna pretend that I like seeing you cry.” 

Her bottom lip wobbles at his words. 

When his strong arms come around her, she sobs. Once. The rest remain in her throat, clogging it. 

Gently, he rocks her from side to side until she calms. She can feel his lips pressing against the crown of her hair. At one point, she hears Aurora tell him that the ice cream is on the counter, and afterward she hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs. 

Now that they’re alone, Clarke draws back. Her face feels tight and sensitive from the tear stains. 

Brushing his hand against hers, Bellamy asks, “Do you want an ice cream cookie sandwich?"

“Yeah.”

“... Okay.”

In the kitchen, he makes one for both of them, spreading soft vanilla gelato between two homemade chocolate chip cookies. They sit outside on the backyard patio to eat them in silence. When the sweetness comes through, it’s subduing, makes her chest feel lighter, and she doesn’t even care that the ice cream melts and drips onto her fingers. 

Bellamy looks at her as she licks her thumb clean. “I’m really sorry. I have no idea why she would call you—” 

“I do.” 

“Please don’t say that, Clarke.” 

She scoffs, slouching a bit in the chair. They sit there in the quiet twilight until Aurora eventually slides the glass door to the backyard open and looks at them, her brow furrowed. “Don’t you think you should be heading home, Clarke? Your mom will be worried.” 

_Doubtful._

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the meal. It was lovely.”

Before she can rise to her feet, however, Bellamy places his hand on her wrist. “Wait. Don’t leave yet. Give me a minute or two.” 

Waiting for Bellamy in the hallway with Aurora is… tense, and Clarke’s mind drifts to Octavia, her fury. Their friendship was never perfect; it was a long trail of deep, dark valleys followed by sunlit mountain tops, and yet Clarke always assumed that she would understand. 

But she didn’t. 

Finally, he comes back, breaking the awkward silence as he hands her a baby blue envelope. “I meant to give this to you a while back, but we were… Don’t open it until you’re at home, okay?”

The envelope has her name written on the front, in block letters. 

Nodding, she opens the door and pretends not to notice the way Aurora’s eyes harden on Bellamy just before she shuts it behind her.

But the raised voice is impossible to ignore. _“Do you mind telling me why you smelled like her when you came home today?”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, guys! :) i'm so sorry for the long wait. i had exams to worry about and i've also been working on a seven-season fix-it fic that's slowly taking shape. thank you so much for your patience. 
> 
> [see the end of chapter notes for content warnings!]

> _hear a sound, then i’m rushing_
> 
> _through the seams_
> 
> _and all that you allow in your head_
> 
> — **_slow down_**

In the envelope, Clarke finds her memories captured as a bundle of singular moments tied together with string. This is much neater than the scattered chaos they create in her mind, and though the colors have dulled over the years, she loves them, because they’re all that she has to keep: _Five photos,_ one of them blurry, as she is caught mid-laugh and her dad is caught mid-movement. 

In the afternoon, Clarke finds Bellamy. Without even looking. He’s imitating the sun in that way, by peeking into every corner of her world; even the video arcade where he doesn’t seem to belong. 

It used to be the place that she and Wells would run to as rogue middle schoolers, hoping to escape their parents. Together, they could spend hours listening to the animated sounds of the machines, competing for tickets that, at the end of the day, wouldn’t buy them more than cheap plastic toys.

Today is different, however, since he’s brought Raven in tow. Her presence makes him radiate, shift on his feet. Still, the most revealing change is that he, a known sore loser, _beams_ every time Raven runs up her score in their game of air-hockey. If his date was anyone else, Clarke would tell him to be less obvious, but Reyes doesn’t appear to care. Maybe his lack of bravado is refreshing for her. 

Clarke needs to be refreshed, too, so she leaves them alone to battle it out. Then, she spends five minutes trying to decide if she wants a cherry or Blue Raspberry-flavored slushie. When she finally chooses the latter, a low rumble rises behind her, “It’s not even a real flavor.” 

At first, her body jolts, but the familiar voice has her turning around. 

Her stomach lurches immediately: Bellamy is wearing a plain white tee that clings to his broad shoulders and exposes some of his toned sterna under the v-neck. His hair looks even softer than usual, the curls falling on his forehead, and his smirk is sharp, perfectly attuned to the confident sparks in his eyes. 

He gives her a once-over, quirking a brow at her. “You okay, Princess?”

_No._

An oddly dangerous blend of lust and longing is swirling in her chest, causing havoc. 

For a second, she wants to tell him that she was awake until the break of dawn, collecting the tears on her cheeks like rainwater and trying to memorize every frozen pixel of the photos. She wants to tell him that there was an Aphrodite butterfly resting on her dad’s arm in one of them and that she’s longing to paint it somewhere on her bedroom walls. As a beautiful reminder. 

But she doesn’t say anything at all. She kisses him, a rough whirlwind.

His brow furrows against her forehead, but when he draws back he’s breathless and doesn’t raise questions as she pulls him into the arcade bathroom.

Here, the sharp scent of cleaning supplies is dominant; it bleeds through to her veins while she pushes him into an empty stall. To her awe, Bellamy relinquishes control, lets her press him up against the wobbly plastic wall and rake her fingers through his hair. 

“ _Fuck,_ Clarke,” he groans against her lips, his hands flexing on her ass. It makes her breath hitch in her throat.

Their kiss remains hot, dizzying, but she pulls back eventually to suck on his sensitive pulse point. Her hands are trembling from the roaring impulses, the loudest of which is telling her to fall to her knees for him and take him into her mouth.

Maybe she should just say _‘thank you’_ like a normal person, but words don't seem like enough. Instead, Clarke grabs his belt buckle, which is cool to the touch; the sweet, acidic flavor of green apple from his tongue is dancing on her taste buds, making her skin buzz. Despite this, her chest feels tight.

 _What if she messes up?_ He’s so good at everything, so confident with her that the possibility of her abilities not matching his is intimidating. 

When she fumbles with the faux leather strap of his belt, his hands drop to cover hers, warm as ever. “Woah, hey. You’re shaking. What’d you want?”

There’s the ghost of a smile on his lips, soft questions in his eyes. 

Shifting on her feet, Clarke replies, “... To go down on you.” 

“You don’t have to. Especially not here.” 

_Funny. Now he cares about the places_ as if he didn’t fuck her in a sunflower field and crowd her against the pretzel tent at a carnival. When she tries to scoff, it comes out squeakier than she anticipated. Pathetic. 

But Bellamy gives her hands a reassuring squeeze. “You’re nervous, I can tell.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert on me now?” 

The left corner of his mouth quirks up to form a smirk. “Not yet… “

For some reason, the silence that follows is heavy and his dark eyes become fleeting, drifting across the dull tiles next to them. The atmosphere of the tight space is sharp, rife with pungent toilet cleaner that must rise to her brain because the first thought that pops into her mind flies off her lips without care, “Did your mom tell you not to fuck me anymore? Is that why—?” 

His brow furrows again. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard what she said to you. After I closed the door last night.” 

Bellamy lips part before he lowers his gaze. “Oh.” 

“ _Oh._ ”

Once the awkwardness has ruled the air between them for a moment, he spills the truth, “I didn’t tell her anything about… us. I managed to convince her that Roma wears the same lotion as you.”

Although she knows that she should be grateful for him choosing to lie to his family _,_ her stomach twists at the absurdity of them believing that she is Roma, his long-legged high school fling who sports expensive leather jackets and rides her old, restored Harley across the asphalted roads. Not exactly the type of person to put anything like _Watermelon Lemonade_ on her skin. Perhaps his mom doesn’t know that, but… 

“And Octavia?” 

Bellamy bites his lip. “She didn’t buy it. I think she knows why Roma and I stopped having sex in the first place.”

“I haven’t heard that story.” 

“Yeah, well,” he starts, placing his hand on the small of his back and guiding her out of the stall. “I’ll tell you later. You better get back to your friends before they call 9-1-1.” 

To her relief, Wells and Raven are too engulfed by a game of arcade basketball to question her when she returns with a half-melted slushie in her hand. As of now, Wells has managed to score the most points, and his competitor is gritting her teeth in concentration. 

Clarke doesn’t want to take sides, so she cheers whenever their balls go through the hoops. In the end, the result is a surprising tie, and she convinces them not to re-match by saying, _“_ I wanna keep things civil here. I’m vetoing this.” 

They leave the arcade behind and go for a tour around the mall to solve Raven’s jacket crisis. She experiences those several times a year because her chosen leather jacket acts as an identity marker, a stroke of individuality. This summer, Clarke has offered to paint a design on one for her.

While they’re sifting through the racks of Forever 21, Raven tells her that she wants the solar system on her back. _Seems fitting._

“And a little astronaut? You?” is Clarke’s suggestion.

Raven beams. “Awesome, but make sure that I’m still wearing my leg brace.”

Smiling, Wells lifts a simple black leather jacket into their view. “Eureka? This one doesn’t have those _tacky details_ you despise, does it?” He scratches the back of his ear, and when Raven takes it from his hands, he shifts nervously on his feet. 

After a second of tense silence, she arches a perfect eyebrow. “You’re not bad at this, Jaha.” 

She slides the jacket on and twirls around in front of him, spreading her arms out like wings. “What do you think?” 

“Uh, you—it looks great.”

In light teasing, Clarke pats his shoulder. “It’ll look better with my artwork on it, though.”

“I’m digging your confidence, Griffin,” Raven says before she heads for the register. “And I trust you that, whatever you do, it’ll be museum-worthy.” 

* * *

The success of finding the jacket propels them into a lovely afternoon of looking for small treasures at the mall. Buried in Anthropologie, Clarke finds a flowy, ultramarine skirt on sale. Later, Wells buys a cool pair of ripped jeans from American Eagle. They try on all kinds of ridiculous accessories, which is how Clarke ends up falling in love with some lilac tinted sunglasses. 

“Your mom would _loathe_ those,” Wells remarks with a smirk. 

“Exactly, which is why I’m getting them.” 

Grinning, Raven links her arm with Clarke, who, in turn, links hers with Wells’. “Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re cool— hey, look! Ice cream _._ ”

 _Monroe’s Ice Cream Parlor_ is owned by a couple whose kid looks like they’d fit in better at an underground boxing rink than behind the counter of a pastel pink shop; fearless, it seems, as there is a they/them pronoun pin on their uniform. “Happy Pride month, Reyes,” they say with a smirk. “Strawberry?”

Raven wrinkles her nose. “You should know me better.”

“I do. Espresso and chocolate it is.” Their scoops are generous and, apparently, they also have inside jokes with Raven because they both laugh at something about ‘orbs’ that neither Clarke nor Wells understands. 

“Monroe and I were lab partners in high school. We had chemistry, both figuratively and literally, went out a couple of times following the Finn Fiasko,” explains Raven once they’ve sat down one of the back booths.

Every day, Clarke learns something new about her galaxy-brain friend. That is because she never acts as if she has anything to hide. In that way, she’s the exact opposite of Bellamy. 

_Speak of the Devil._ Her phone buzzes as she’s licking her spoon clean of melted mint gelato. Four sunflowers appear, but the buzzing doesn’t stop; it keeps going until she’s forced to pick up. 

“What do you want?” she sighs. 

When Bellamy speaks, his voice is raised an octave higher than usual, “Your mom’s passed out in her car. The paramedics are here. You need to come home. _Now._ ” 

Clarke squeezes her phone so tightly that she’s surprised it doesn’t crumble between her fingers. She shoots out of her seat, her heart hammering in her chest as she berates herself internally for not being at home. Of course, there’s no way she could’ve known that her mother would be. As of late, she’s begun to expect absence.

Wells reaches for her hand, but she pulls it out of his grasp, stammering, “Sorry, guys, I gotta run.” 

“What? We’ll come with you.”

“No!” Clarke shouts, clearly startling Raven. “I—I have to do this on my own.”

Caught in a thick haze of frantic thoughts, she abandons her friends to run home. Blood pounds in her ears, her lungs are heaving for air, and yet she doesn’t stop. It feels as if the asphalt of the roads has been replaced by quicksand. She’ll never make it. 

But alas, she does, right as a couple of paramedics are lifting a stretcher into the back of an ambulance. _Her mother_ is strapped to it _—_ the chestnut hair is unmistakable and the horror undeniable — even though she’d prayed that this was all a terrible mistake. 

_No, no, no…_

Bellamy looks at her like a deer in headlights, frozen in front of the silver BMW for a moment before he runs to her. The heavy doors of the ambulance are slammed shut, making her jolt, and he reaches for her shoulder. That’s when she notices his knuckles, caked in blood.

Tiny shards of glass are scattered all over the driveway from the shattered passenger side window.

 _What happened?_ she wants to ask, but the only thing that leaves her lips are desperate pants. 

The ambulance siren is turned on, blaring through the silence and tearing at her heartstrings. Her head feels dangerously airy, and she’s losing her sense of gravity. But Bellamy grabs her elbow, pulls her toward the curb where he forces her to sit down, and pushes her head forward, urging the blood to return to her brain. 

“Sssh,” she hears him murmur; the sound is carried along with the breeze as she stares at the toes of her sneakers and the ambulance drive away. 

If she looks up, the world will crumble; she’s sure of it. So she keeps her head locked between her trembling legs. Time seems to pass in a blur, like when she regained consciousness for a minute following the crash eighteen months ago. The only difference is that, while her body also feels paralyzed now, she still senses his fingers caressing the back of her neck.

Eventually, the uncertainty becomes too much to bear. “Tell me what happened.” 

A second passes before Bellamy speaks, “I was walking home, and I saw her car in the driveway. It’s been a long time since I’d last seen her, so I wanted to say ‘hi’. While I was heading toward the front door, I noticed that she was still in the car… slumped over the steering wheel. I tried knocking on the window, but she—she didn’t react, and I realized that something was wrong. I called the paramedics, then you.”

“And you smashed the window.”

“With a rock. They told me to get her out of the car in case she started seizing or something.” 

_Oh, right._

Clarke can’t bring herself to say anything, not even _thank you._ The image of her mother blacked out behind the steering wheel of a car is both horrifying and infuriating. To prevent it from trembling, she drags her bottom lip between her teeth, stares into empty space. 

Some of the neighbors appear to be watching: Mrs. Vie is peering over her rose bushes, a deep furrow etched between her brows, but none of them come any closer, and for that she is grateful. 

Bellamy is enough to deal with at the moment. “Clarke… the paramedics, they thought that it might be an accidental overdose.”

She doesn’t have enough willpower to act repulsed or however it is that people act when they’re in denial about their parent’s substance abuse. Because she stopped being in denial about it a year ago, it’s hard to remember how she felt at that time. Moreover, the struggle is only made harder by her stomach clenching and nausea rising through her chest. 

After trying to battle the queasiness for a moment, she realizes that it’s useless. “I have to—”

It’s a damn miracle that she makes it to the bathroom before retching her heart out. Bellamy holds her hair back, even rubs soothing circles on her spine. Something — maybe it’s the bodily shock of throwing up, followed by his gentle touch — has tears welling up in her eyes. 

Handing her a piece of toilet paper to wipe her mouth, he murmurs, “I’ll get you a glass of water. Just—don’t move, okay?” 

He sounds genuinely fucking worried, which makes her feel worse, though that’s barely possible. 

The cool water that he brings soothes her burning throat, but she still feels dizzy, and when she tries to stand her legs wobble dangerously. To her relief, he’s there to steady her. He follows her to the couch. With each step, the blood seems to drain out of her face; she hasn’t felt this ill since she woke up in the hospital after the accident. 

Frowning, Bellamy wraps a fuzzy blanket around her shoulders. “You want some tea?”

Although she considers turning it down, she can tell that he’s desperate to help, so she says, “Chamomile, please,” her voice strained.

While he prepares the hot beverage, she stares at the wall in front of her, her mind void. When he puts the mug down on the coffee table, she stares at the steam that emanates from it, waiting for it to cool. As she takes the first sip, she realizes that he’s put honey in it, just like her dad used to. It causes the tears to sting in her eyes.

“If you’re hungry,” Bellamy says, his fingertips drawing invisible spirals on her outer thigh, “I can make something for you. Anything you want.” Clarke’s not hungry, but she doesn’t have the heart nor the energy to tell him that, and she just sits there, silent, until he adds, “... Or I could drive you to the hospital.” 

Suddenly, her voice finds the strength to refuse. “ _No,_ I don’t wanna go, I—I don’t like hospitals.”

Just thinking about those white clinical walls makes her feel as if she’s going to faint. And Bellamy seems to understand, at least, because his hand gives her knee a comforting squeeze. This action has him wincing, which pulls her attention to his knuckles again.

“You should really bandage that,” she mutters. “The first aid kit is in the bathroom cabinet.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

But she glares at him. “Get the fucking kit.” 

Bellamy decides not to argue any further. As soon as he turns with the small red bag, she unzips it and pulls out a roll of bandages. She orders him to keep his hand straight as she ties them tightly around his knuckles. “If these cuts were even a bit deeper, you would’ve needed stitches.”

“Clarke—”

“You should’ve been more careful,” she tells him sternly. For a moment, she’s embarrassed, knowing that she must sound like his mother, but she pushes the feeling aside and fastens the bandages with some brown tape. 

When she meets his gaze, his jaw tics. “I was only trying to save her life.” 

“And you got yourself injured in the process!”

His dark eyes thunder. “I wasn’t thinking about that!”

The room seems to quiver as they both bellow. Being angry at him isn’t the answer; she knows that, and yet she can’t sort out her emotions well enough to understand how she _should_ be feeling. Of course, the most logical reaction to something like this is to be terrified, and maybe she is… Deep down. But most of all, she feels crushed. In a million different ways. 

The silence that stretches between them is heavy, uncomfortable. Turning away from her, Bellamy asks, “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” and she detects of a hint of worry dripping at the edges of his otherwise gruff voice. “I’ll make you anything.”

She tries to fake a smile, but all it does is make her lips twitch. “No, I don’t. I’m not hungry.” 

“I can pick up something, too, at—“

“Bellamy, I just… I just want you to stay here. With me.” 

He blinks, his lips parting slightly, but he doesn’t question it. Instead, he folds his legs up on the couch and scoots closer to her. 

They could try to act normal, watch a movie or something. Still, the air between them is rich with silent understanding: There is absolutely _nothing_ normal about today, and they’d be fools if they attempted to pretend otherwise. So, Bellamy brings her feet into his lap and rubs them gently; she curls into him, twisting her head to let it rest on his shoulder. 

At some point, the tears start to flow from her eyes.

For a while, he pretends as if he doesn’t notice it, as if it doesn’t bother him, and prior to yesterday she would’ve been inclined to fall for this act; then he cradled her face and wrapped his arms around her after Octavia’s insult. 

He does care. A lot. 

“What do you usually do to make yourself feel better?” he asks, brushing his fingertip across her ankle. 

Clarke doesn’t need to think; the answer just rolls off her tongue, “I make art.”

Looking at him, she notices the shadow of a genuine smile on his lips. “You should do that now then,” he says softly and, somehow, her mind drifts to the photo that she stared at until the crack of dawn, to the breathtaking Aphrodite butterfly on her dad’s arm. A true treasure.

Bellamy brings a packet of double-stuffed Oreos and the rest of their tea to her bedroom, the latter of which he keeps by his side on the floor so that she doesn’t mistake it for paint water. To do the butterfly justice, Clarke sketches the outline of it first, next to her window seat; she mixes the prettiest shades of red and orange for the wings and dips the tip of her paintbrush into it. 

For the most part, Bellamy doesn’t disturb her, but after the third dip into the paint, Clarke raises her eyes to see him holding an Oreo in front of her nose. “Eat it.” 

“No.” 

“Did I sound like I was _asking_?” he says, his voice gravelly. 

The pleasant burning sensation that his rumble leaves in her lower stomach only lasts a moment before the heaviness conquers it again. “I told you, I’m not hungry,” is what she insists, yet it emerges far weaker than she’d like it to sound. 

“You don’t have to be hungry to eat an Oreo,” he reasons, the words coated in forced amusement. Though he wants to pretend to be teasing her, it’s not carefree as it should be: the worry that she recognized earlier is audibly worse now. 

Struck by a twitch of pity, she takes the cookie from his hand and bites into it, even though she knows that she shouldn’t be doing it to appease him. She should be doing it for herself, because she _does_ deserve to taste the sweetness of sugar and indulge the richness of chocolate, no matter how bitter she might be feeling. 

“If you would stop staring at me…” she says, munching.

“Oh, I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the butterfly,” he claims, but the amusement in his voice is real this time, so it’s obvious that he’s lying. 

While the small mural is drying, Clarke changes into her sleepwear in the bathroom despite the fact that it’s barely 7 pm. Her body feels drained and she can’t with a good conscious force it to be in jean shorts and a tight camisole for another minute. When she returns to the bedroom, Bellamy is sitting cross-legged in the window seat, holding the baby blue envelope that’s been lingering in her mind all day. 

“So,” he says, “this is your motif,” then he holds out the photograph in front of her as if she hasn’t already memorized each colorful pixel like it were a childhood fairytale. 

She nods, and a crease forms between his brows, but he doesn’t say anything. Looking at the picture again, a small smile conquers his lips. The sight makes her heart clench as she recalls what he said last night while handing her the envelope: _I meant to give this to you a while back._

Right away, her tongue is loosened. “Why now, Bellamy? Why give the photos to me now?” 

His eyes settle on her and his Adam’s apple bobs. “I felt bad about keeping them. They’re yours, after all.” 

“They’re not. You took them. You had every right to—“

“No, I didn’t. Not when you need them more than me. He was _your_ dad.”

When her bottom lip wobbles, she drags it between her teeth, but that can’t keep the tears from clouding her eyes. Suddenly, what she’s wanted to say since she saw him at the arcade just leaps off her lips, “You have _no idea,”_ her voice breaks, ”how much they mean to me.” 

The first tear runs down her cheek, and she sits down on the bed. Bellamy joins her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Maybe he thinks that he did the bare minimum, that these were just four photos out of many, but they’re not. He deserves to know that. 

“I don’t have any other pictures of him,” she admits, staring at her hands. 

Still, she doesn’t need to look at him to know that a frown is dominating his expression. “How—why is that?”

“My mom, she took them all down after the accident. While I was on strict bed rest. She was too busy taking care of me, she didn’t want to think about what she’d lost, so she… removed every trace of him in the house. To cope. But I didn’t see it that way.” 

The tears are ruthless now, streaming down her face. “When I was finally allowed to walk again, the first thing I noticed about the world was how empty it was without Dad, and she—she’d just _ripped_ him out my life even harder—“

As she chokes on a broken sob, Bellamy’s arms encompass her and he cradles her head against his chest, letting them fall backward on the bed. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his thumb caressing her temple. Usually, when people say that, it rings hollow, but it doesn’t now because the words are falling apart as they are spoken, “I’m so sorry that she didn’t think about _your_ loss.” 

Even though this is only the tip of the iceberg, letting it come to light makes her body seem a little less heavy. It doesn’t really matter that the sobs are still wrecking her chest because the result is a strange kind of relief.

“The worst part is that she managed to convince me that it was the right thing to do,” she says and inhales sharply before continuing, “She convinced me to delete the pictures off my phone, too.”

At the end of the day, she was too traumatized by the accident to understand that she couldn’t do anything to escape the pain; she had to do _something,_ and her mom said to do this, was so sure that it would help because she’d managed to nurse Clarke back to health without thinking once about her husband.

 _“_ It’s my own fault, really,” Clarke adds. “I should’ve understood that it wouldn’t be healthy.” 

“It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault,” Bellamy says, but to no use; it doesn’t kill the guilt, doesn’t make her feel less foolish. At times like these, she wishes that she could blame her mother for everything. 

Because she can’t think of anything more to say, she remains silent until the tears on her cheeks have dried and she’s sure that the painted butterfly has, too. Instead of going to verify it, she curls into the small nook by Bellamy’s arm, lets herself be calmed by the scent of coconut sunscreen on his skin. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” she says, closing her eyes. 

“Yeah? Like what?” 

Against all odds, the smallest of smiles makes its way to her lips. “About you and Roma. You promised, remember?” 

He sighs, then flips onto his side to look at her. “Okay. Before she went to college, she told me that she wanted a real boyfriend and she didn’t think that I was… cut out for the part. I mean, I couldn't blame her. She was right. And I wished her all the best.” 

“The end?”

“The end,” he affirms with a smirk. For some reason, she can’t resist the urge to trace the signature curve of his mouth with her fingertips, but the touch has a true smile blooming there instead. 

“Sucks. She’s cool. Or at least she always seemed that way, you know? With the Harley and the leather clothes and—what scent did she wear? Not watermelon lemonade, I presume.”

Grinning, he says, “I think… It was something dark meant for nightwear.”

“Sexy?” 

At that, Bellamy’s brow furrows. “I guess.” 

“Not at all like me.” 

Naturally, he starts to protest, but her mind is already running wild, her thoughts making a sharp turn down the road of insecurity. Just thinking about him with Roma is enough to make her feel small, and her chest tightens before she says, “Admit it, Bellamy, she’s everything that I’m not, and now your mom thinks that _I’m_ her. It’s all wrong.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, or at least he doesn’t have a defense ready to go. She doesn’t care about that, though, because it’s not about his reason for the lie, she understands those, it’s about the absurd nature of it: The idea that she could ever pass as Roma Bragg is fucking ridiculous. 

“I bet she wasn’t too nervous to give you head,” the words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them. 

“Woah, stop right there.” His eyes search hers. “She was at the beginning. Whatever standards that you think you have to live up to, Clarke, you’re imagining them. I don’t expect you to be ready for everything, and I don’t want you to do things before you’re ready just because you want to please me. Got it?” 

Her cheeks burst aflame, but she nods. To her utter surprise, Bellamy drops a kiss to her forehead. 

After a moment of silence, he changes the subject, “You want my shirt to sleep in?”

She smiles at him until she realizes, _that means he wants to stay, doesn’t it?_ It’s either that or he doesn’t give a shit about walking home shirtless during the mosquito-feast season. 

“I thought you only gave out your shirt after sex.”

At that, he snorts. “Well, I’m willing to make an exception.” 

When she reaches out to play with the hem of the tee, Bellamy tugs it off to give it to her, and she immediately pulls it over the white camisole that she was already wearing. “Do you wanna stay over?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah I can do that.” 

As she shuffles closer to him, Clarke is hyperaware of how this wasn’t a part of their _arrangement,_ and she was never supposed to share a space with him unless it was about sex. In truth, she hasn’t yet worked out how she feels about him pulling her mother out of a car, and about him rubbing her feet, or watching her as she painted. All that she knows is that she’s grateful for his presence; she senses it viscerally no matter what they’re doing. 

Right now, she can feel his ribcage rise and fall with every breath that he takes. The rhythm it provides is soft, soothing. But, most importantly, it prevents her mind from settling on an image of her mom alone in a hospital bed before she drifts off to sleep. 

Sometime later, she jerks awake to the sound of a hushed voice outside her room. It takes a second for her to realize that it’s Bellamy because she was convinced that he was still lying next to her.

“... Sorry. Yes, I’m calling to inquire about a patient. Abigail Griffin… No, I’m not, but I’m the person who—well, who pulled her out of the car, so I—yes, of course.”

A minute passes in which Clarke can’t hear anything but the pounding of her own heart. Then he speaks again, “I understand, but I’ve seen cases like that before so I have an inkling already and, you see, she’s my friend’s only living parent. If you could just tell me how serious—” A long, dreadful pause. “Okay… Well, thanks for letting me know. Bye.” 

Despite the panic that’s shooting through her veins, Clarke rolls onto her side and feigns sleep. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: this chapter discusses a potential overdose, substance abuse, and unhealthy coping mechanisms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! 🥰
> 
> in case you're worried — i won't give up on this fic; it's just taking me a little while to write each chapter because i put a lot of energy into it and there's a lot going on in my life at the moment. in this specific chapter, i've focused on characterization and backstory so i hope that it shines through. 
> 
> writing this fic is, in a way, practice for me because i'm in the process of draftin/planning my first novel, so i'm working on improving my skills as much as possible. i really hope that you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> // jo

> _you're the only friend i need_   
>  _sharing beds like little kids_   
>  _laughing 'til our ribs get tough_   
>  _but that will never be enough_
> 
> _— **ribs**_

In the morning, Clarke is stirred awake by the gentle dance of raindrops on her window. She’s wrapped in a soft cocoon of bed sheets, her cheek against the pillow. After a dreamless sleep, her mind seems as clouded as the sky outside, and she feels sedated. It takes a couple of minutes for the horrors of the previous day to seep through the layers of calm soaking her body. 

But when they do, she shivers — and the first thing she does is reach for him, for his warmth. Instead of touching his naked back, her hand fists at empty, cold sheets. A frown etches itself onto her face. For a moment, she questions if yesterday was merely a brutal dream. But it makes no sense at all, she realizes as she rolls onto her other side. 

There, on the nightstand next to her, she finds a note adorned by his messy scribbles. 

_Morning, Princess_

_I have to be at work, but I’ll be back during my break_

_There’s hot coffee in the pot downstairs._

_(Of course, that depends on how long you sleep for_

_Don’t blame me if you have to make it a cold brew)_

_// Bellamy_

Clarke slips out bed and, as soon as her feet touch the ground, it quakes, sending a shock to her bones: _My mom is in the hospital._ Still, she forces herself to keep moving, praying that the floorboards won’t cave in beneath her. When she makes it to the kitchen, her heart is pounding and the tremors in her body make it difficult to hold on to her Frida Kahlo mug as she pours some (lukewarm) coffee into it. 

To squash the haunting silence, she hooks her phone up to the house speakers, plays _Carry You_ by Novo Amor. Then she steps onto the wooden terrace; the air is humid, but the rain is wiping it clean, infusing it with petrichor. 

After taking a sip of her coffee, she checks her phone, finds it blown up by unread messages and missed calls from the friends that she abandoned at the mall yesterday. She shouldn’t have left them like that. Not when they just wanted to be there for her. As the guilt makes a home out of her body, she scrolls down her list of contacts, but at least two minutes pass before she plucks up the courage to call Wells. True to his nature, he picks up on the first ring. 

The apology that she’d prepared is cut off, “You don’t have to explain. My dad told us what happened. If you want some company, Raven and I —”

“Please,” she whispers. Even though she’s grown used to being at the house alone, today it seems unbearable. “Come over.”

They arrive bringing a picnic basket — Raven’s idea, no doubt — stuffed with pre-packaged waffles, watermelon cubes, syrup, and peach jam sandwiches. Wells is terribly allergic to peanut butter, so there isn’t any of that in sight, but Clarke doesn’t mind. She can’t think of a better breakfast. 

(And her stomach is _screaming,_ a punishment for her lack of dinner last night.) 

Outside, the rain has stopped, and the gentle rays of the sun pull them into the garden. Raven lays a large blanket on the ground. They surround themselves with food before sitting down. While Clarke expects them to fall into place across from her, they choose to stay by her side. 

She looks at Wells as he scoops a waffle onto her plate. “How’d your dad know about…?” 

When she trails off, her friend’s lip twitches. “You know, small town.”

Her heart clenches painfully because she _does_ know. How fast words travel, how quickly mean gossip thrives and flows down the streets as the wind. After the accident, she wore her headphones every time she went outside, to drown out the whispers with her dad’s favorite hymns. But even The Beatles and Queen were reduced to distant echoes under the volume of _‘I heard that she was with him. God, how awful,’_ and ‘ _Poor girl. Will she go to UPenn now? That was what she wanted, right?’_

Dragging her bottom lip between her teeth, Clarke nods and pokes at a blueberry with her fork. She almost feels bad for it when she gives in, lets it explode between her teeth. 

“... Have you been to the hospital?” Raven asks, her voice uncharacteristically careful. 

“No.”

“And you don’t want to go,” she fills in the blank. 

“That’s right.” Though the words ring true enough, uttering them leaves a deep pit in her stomach, which she tries to fill by taking a huge bite of her waffle. It doesn’t even matter that she forgot to put on syrup; it still tastes better than guilt. 

His eyes deep and tender, Wells dresses the rest of her waffle in sweetness for good measure. 

A while passes like this: The three of them sway along to the songs that pour out of Raven’s mini speaker. Her friends are blooming in the weak sunlight, and Clarke pretends to; pretends that she feels lighter. She even manages to laugh as Raven tells the story of how Monroe created a stink bomb and threw it into the crushed beer can that John Murphy referred to as ‘ _car’._

“The fool had it coming after he made fun of Gaia. You know, she went to Homecoming with Monroe…”

Clarke stops paying attention as soon as her gaze drops. The shirt that she’s wearing — _Bellamy’s_ white tee — now has a sticky syrup stain on it. “Fuck.” 

Immediately, Wells’ head snaps in her direction. “What?” 

“Uh...” Blood rushes to her face. “It’s—well, it’s nothing. Sorry, keep going.” 

But Raven’s neat eyebrows are arched, telling her that she can’t bullshit her way out of this one. And, as it turns out, she doesn’t even get a chance to, because Wells blurts, “ _Of course_. I thought that shirt was too big but, you know, it’s a trend so I didn’t—” 

Raven cuts him off, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait, what the fuck are you guys talking about? _Enlighten me_ , right now.” 

When Wells looks at her, expectant, Clarke hopes that her eyes are shooting daggers at him, but they clearly aren’t. She’s far too deflated to be annoyed at him. Sometimes he can’t prevent himself from speaking his thoughts out loud; this is a classic slip-up. 

Sighing, Clarke says, “It’s not important. It’s just, um, it’s not my shirt, and I—” _spilled something on it._ Great. Now she’ll either have to think of an excuse to keep it even longer so that she can wash it, or return it to him and ignore the fact that it’s in no fit state to be handed back. 

“Well, whose is it?” 

“Bellamy gave it to me. He—he was with me last night because he’s the one who found my... “ Swallowing hard, she spears the last piece of watermelon on her plate and eats it. “He found her. He pulled her out.” 

Though it still doesn’t feel real, there is a layer of broken glass in the driveway to prove that it did, in fact, happen. Thinking about it makes her stomach drop. Clarke feels nauseous again, but Raven’s voice distracts her, “And he gave you his shirt because…?” 

“Because I asked for it,” she lies, knowing that it’s not plausible. Not in the slightest. The only thing Raven knows about her relationship with Bellamy is that he’s the older brother of her ex-best friend. That limited insight doesn’t explain why she’d suddenly be craving the feeling of his shirt against her skin. 

But, apparently, other things do. “Don’t blame you. According to Bree, his shirts are _amazing and soft, just like other parts of him._ ” Her friend grimaces after echoing the girl’s description. Then she grins. “Is it true?”

Clarke feels her jaw slacken. “Um…” 

Her chest tightens when she trails off, a vivid memory of Bree perched on Bellamy’s lap resurfacing in her brain. She knew that it was rude of her to stare at them, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away; couldn’t stop watching the way his hand curled on her milky thigh or listening to her giggles as she kept trying to steal sips from his beer can. He guarded it like a dog, glaring, and snapping at her fingers, taking her thumb into his mouth in reprimand. 

It was impossible not to watch. She’d just turned fourteen at the time and all that she knew about sex was that people had it with someone they loved. Except, this didn’t look like any kind of love that Clarke had ever witnessed: Two nineteen-year-olds laced together at nightfall, sucking and biting at each other’s skin, flashing their teeth in the pale moonlight. Then his hand slipped beneath the hem of her skirt and her head fell back, her lips parted, eyelids fluttering. “ _Baby,_ ” she called him. “ _Baby._ ”

As far as Clarke was concerned, it had to be love. But, of course, it wasn’t. 

“Earth to Griffin,” Raven says, startling her. “You hear what I said?” 

Battling the urge to worry her lower lip, Clarke puts down her plate. “I wouldn’t know,” is how she finally responds, but it only makes her friend snort. 

“You’re blushing—”

“Am not.” 

“Am too,” Raven says, completing a repeat of the exchange they had a few days ago at her house. “So, come on. Spit it out. Which part of him is the softest?” 

By some miracle, she manages to control her facial expression and prevent the heat from exploding all over her face, keeping it contained to her cheeks for now. It takes her a second to decide, but she winds up telling them half of the truth, “It’s not _that._ It’s just… I saw them together once. Him and Bree. In his backyard.”

At her words, Raven’s face is lifted as if it’s the most scandalous thing she’s ever heard. “And what? You _spied_ on them?”

“Yeah, well—”

A grin cracks her friend’s expression, and she laughs as she rarely does, loud and bright without a care; the entire world lights up with it, the wind sings it back, appreciative. When it dies down, the look on Wells’ face is adoring and Clarke feels surprisingly unembarrassed by the whole thing, even as Raven says, “You, a voyeurist? I would’ve never guessed. How hot was it?” 

Wells covers his ears now, chanting _la-la-la-la,_ but Clarke grabs his wrists and forces him to listen to her explanation. “I was _fourteen,_ Reyes. It wasn’t like that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! I was just curious ‘cause I’d never seen him with a girl before and... ” In truth, she had a huge crush on him back then. He was sort of like an unattainable god in her imagination: Her best friend’s brother who was almost six years older; who came home with messy hair and lipstick collar-stains and bruises on his neck. 

_From kissing,_ Octavia whispered to her one night, scrunching up her nose. _Gross._

Raven nods in apparent understanding. Then, perfectly timed, Britney’s voice echoes through the mini speaker, and they shout in unison: “ _Hit me, Baby, one more time!”_

Clarke wonders if that’s how Bree felt, wonders if it’s how she’ll feel eventually. Still, she pushes it aside in favor of laughing with her friends. When Raven and Wells launch into a conversation about iconic songs from the ’90s, however, her attention wanders to the shadow that’s moving up the driveway. The shadow of a person.

Her gaze rises, taking in the sight of ruffled black jeans, freckled forearms, and a loose yellow flannel. Bellamy pauses, runs the nose of his boot against some of the glass left on the ground. Something stirs in his expression, making it contort, and before she knows it she’s on her feet.

She jogs toward him. He turns around — almost on instinct, it seems — to meet her. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” 

Awkwardly, he peers over her shoulder, spotting her friends on the grass. When he speaks again, he lowers his voice a bit, “Are you doing better?” 

Clarke doesn’t really know how to respond, but she knows that she can’t look at him as she forces a nod, so she stares at the pot of violet hydrangeas by the gate. His fingers brush her shoulder, and though the touch is gentle, she fears that she might crumble. A couple of minutes ago, she was laughing. Now, she feels like a fool for doing so. 

A damn fool. 

“Look at me,” Bellamy says. “Please.” 

“Stop worrying about me,” the line comes out without permission but carries the full force of her voice. 

Despite her trying to shove him away, to shut him out of the storm, he’s already standing in the eye of the hurricane. She thinks it might have been this way since that night in the sunflower field when he slowed their kiss and patched up her knee. 

Bellamy snorts, scornful. “Don’t pull that shit. Not after you asked me to stay last night—” His dark eyes drop, his jaw clenching. “—Not when you’re wearing my shirt.” 

“Want it back?”

For a second, he gawks at her as though she’s a petulant _child,_ and she ignores the heavy dread that it leaves in the pit of her stomach. “You know what? I don’t. I suggest you think about that, Clarke.” He presses his lips to a thin line. “Think about what that means.” 

As he turns on his heel and leaves, her mind races back to something he said a couple of nights ago, _If you’re trying to trick me into saying ‘you’re not like other girls’, I’m sorry but that won’t happen._ She stares off into the distance, a frown carving itself onto her lips. And all she can think about is how hypocritical he just was. If she isn’t special, then why is he letting her keep the shirt? 

It can’t be because of the syrup stain. 

* * *

As the hours pass, the cloud shape-shift in the sky that turns periwinkle before sunset. That’s when her friends pack up their picnic and put an end to her only distraction by leaving. She said that they could because she had no idea how hard everything would hit once she was alone, once there are no songs, no words, no food for comfort.

The thoughts tangle in the spider web of her brain; thoughts about the accident, about her mom, about the call that she overheard last night, and Bellamy… Bellamy. She remembers his voice last night, how it trembled; his bloody knuckles that she forgot to examine today. _Fuck._

He was only trying to help, but she refused it just like she did following the accident. While the guilt thickens in her veins, she flips idly through the TV channels until the sound of commercials and talk show hosts and action movies blur in her mind. It doesn’t take long for the white noise to drive her crazy, so she tries to tune it out by turning off the screen. 

The cacophony in her mind stops, yet the regret still roars. Struck by the force of it, she buckles over, clutching her stomach, and a scream is freed from her chest. 

(If the neighbors somehow didn’t already think she’d lost her mind, they sure as hell do now)

It leaves her hands trembling, so she busies them by making a grilled cheese sandwich that nearly burns on the stove and, even after all of that trouble, is tasteless. She’s struggling to swallow the third bite when she realizes that she should probably just apologize. Like a normal person. 

But as Clarke’s reaching for her phone on the coffee table, it rings. She freezes when she sees the name on the screen, has to blink twice to make sure that she’s not imagining it: _Octavia._

Swallowing, she picks up and asks, “Everything okay?” trying to keep her voice steady because she just can’t believe that this call is a _good_ thing. 

And it’s not. “Is Bellamy with you?”

Her mind spins. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Clarke.” Though the words are icy, the anxiety behind them is poorly hidden. “He was supposed to be home two hours ago. He told me he’d be. He _promised._ ” At that last part, the fear finally breaks through; she sounds young and so incredibly frightened. With good reason. It isn’t in Bellamy’s nature to break promises, or even forget about them. 

Struggling to put a lid on her own worry, she says, “Uh… Okay, I’ll—I can come over, help you look for him. Wait, isn’t he answering his phone?”

“Straight to voicemail.”

_Shit._

After hanging up, Clarke throws her jean jacket over her shoulders and runs out of the door, nearly forgetting to lock the door behind her. Much like yesterday, years seem to pass before she’s where she needs to be, her heart pounding a tattoo against her ribs. 

At least, her mind is not completely drained this time. As soon as she lays eyes on Aurora — her black hair that carries the same, soft shine as Bellamy’s, a thought pops into her head. “I think I know where he might be.” 

“Where?” his mom asks, and it emerges like a desperate gasp. Then, almost frantically, she grabs the sleeve of Clarke’s jacket, anchoring her to the pavement. “Please, it’s not like him to disappear. I don’t—I don’t understand.” 

“The old crystal lake. You know, the one that dried out four years ago—” _He took me there, said it was ‘his place’, but he never told me why it was so special._

Still, it’s the best shot that they have right now. 

“Why would he be _there_?” Octavia scoffs. “It’s ridiculous. We should go to Miller’s—”

But Aurora has already swung the passenger side door of her rusty minivan open. “ _Get in._ Now.”

They both follow her orders without blinking, as though she were a goddess capable of condemning them if they didn’t. Despite her frail exterior — the bony limbs and worn clothes —her strength is striking: It’s in the way that she clutches the steering wheel, takes the short-cut down Avery street, and seems to dominate the small, silent space of the car. 

Clarke meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, avoids Octavia’s. 

There’s no doubt about it: _Aurora Blake is going to find her son._

Soon, they pull up by the small gathering of trees that Bellamy parked next to when he brought her here. The fireflies are dancing in the quiet of the night that’s breaking, the sky a deep shade of indigo. Right away, the headlights illuminate the silhouette of someone sitting on the jetty. They all recognize him at the same time, it seems, as they jump out of the van in perfect tune.

Then it’s a question of who finds their voice first. 

Aurora wins. “You! If you’re not over here in three seconds, I’ll—”

“Relax!” Bellamy barks at her, and Clarke wonders how the hell he has the courage. Still, he’s not quite daring enough to stay put, so he moves closer, his pace showing reluctance. “I’m okay. No need to worry.” 

“No need? _No need!?_ ” his mom shrieks, poking at his chest with her long, slim finger. “You have kids and you tell me that again!” When her voice breaks at the end, she reaches out, and Clarke watches as Bellamy willfully falls into her embrace, squeezing his eyes shut as the wind makes wisps of her hair brush his cheek. 

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Why’d you turn off your phone?” Aurora cuts him off. 

He hesitates. For too long. It makes Clarke’s heart jump and his mom draw back slightly to look at him. Once he finally speaks, however, the explanation is less than satisfying. “I wanted to be alone. Again, I’m sorry.” 

“That’s not good enough.” 

“I know,” is what he sighs, averting his eyes to his feet for a moment before raising them again. Only now does he notice her presence, frozen in place by the side mirror of the car. Suddenly, she wishes that she hadn’t come along. And maybe he does, too, because he asks, “What are you doing here?” 

He sounds _offended_ , not confused. The blow of it goes straight to her chest, breeds anger where it lands and, for a second, she forgets; not just that she was worried about him but also that his family is right next to them. “Don’t pull that shit,” she echoes him. “Not after you…” Tears well up in her eyes without permission. 

“Hey, I didn’t… ” Bellamy says softly, stepping away from his mom. “I didn’t... “ 

Too many words are left dead in the night. 

Nursing her bottom lip, Clarke takes a step closer. Then another. 

“I’m sorry, Bellamy. I—should’ve let you in. Because you needed me to, this time. _Right_?” As soon as those words have fallen off her lips, his dark eyes turn glassy. He doesn’t say anything, not quite yet, he just pulls her in the rest of the way, holding her tightly against his chest. 

When he takes a breath, it sounds as if he’d been slowly drowning. “I thought she was dead,” he chokes out. “I couldn’t see anything. I thought that I had to pull her _body_ out of the car, I—”

Her heart clenches, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he holds her even closer, and she brushes her fingers through his velvet hair until he stops heaving. It hurts, that it didn’t once cross her mind that he must’ve been terrified when he found her, that it probably haunted him as he slept that night, although he seemed so sound, so collected. 

Now she knows that he played that part for her. 

Because he’s got an iron hold on her waist, it’s difficult, and yet she manages to pull back slightly to look at him. “I wish it was me. I wish _I’d_ been the one there. I never meant for you to—”

“Know? Care?”

Clarke swallows hard. “Both.” 

She doesn’t quite say ‘ _I just wanted to fuck you and forget about my troubles’_ but, somehow, that is still the message that sticks to the air between them. It leaves everything muddled; even his expressive eyes are reduced to fog. That’s how she can tell: She’s hurt him. 

And it matters. It matters too much. 

His fingers brush hers, a soft gesture that tugs at her heartstrings. 

In the end, Aurora breaks through to them. “Come on. Let’s go home. I’ll make us something warm when we get there.” 

_Something warm_ is, in this case, cups of strong coffee with a side of lemon pound cake. Bellamy eats it guiltily, picking at the edges like a child until his mom shoots him a piercing glare. It forces him to meet her eyes, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t want to apologize again. 

Clarke watches the scene play out from her seat at the end of dinner table; she’s been tucked away between Bellamy and Aurora, far away from Octavia, the heavy mist of disdain that surrounds her. While she’s grateful for that, the silence is way too vast for such a small kitchen, and the room seems to be shrinking, the air thinning out along with the space. 

When Bellamy turns his eyes away from his mom, she catches a glimpse of his expression: it crumbles a bit, the pain seeping out. In silent comfort, she knocks her foot against his under the table, remembering how he did it at the family barbecue. But it doesn’t help.

She has to get him out of here.

 _Screw it,_ Clarke thinks, glancing at the girl who used to be her best friend. _She already knows._

And some things can’t be mended. This isn’t her first bike with the flat tire or a cheap, shattered picture frame. 

“Hey,” she murmurs, touching his wrist. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” 

At first, his dark eyes flicker. He seems to reach the same conclusion as her because he nods, pushing out his chair. Without glancing back, she follows him upstairs to the door that dwells in her mind. 

His room is as neat as she remembers. He’s molded it like a sanctuary, with white walls and green plants whose leaves spill over the window sill. Above his bed is a floating bookcase bearing three favorites: _The Odyssey, The Iliad —_ brought back from his car, no doubt — and the odd one out: _Jane Eyre._ Everything is so peacefully unchanged, which is more than she can say about him. She was never afraid of disturbing the calm that lives here, waltzing in with her Doc Martens on, throwing herself flat on his bed. 

Bellamy smirks as if he recalls it, too. 

The tension flows out of the window, which is cracked open. 

“You break all of the rules for me,” she says, teasing; it pulls his eyes to her. 

After a second, he snorts. “I don’t have _rules._ How pretentious do you think I am?” 

“Pretentious enough to fake smoke.” For the first time in nearly two years, she walks to his bed, but instead of collapsing on it, she sits down, lets her fingers trace the edge of the mattress. “I mean, who the fuck does that?”

Bellamy sighs before joining her. He leans in until his shoulder touches hers and says, “I used to, you know. Smoke. Ten a day.”

When she hears that, she looks at him, her jaw slackening of its own accord. “What?”

“Bet you wouldn’t have guessed that, huh?” As he bumps against her, she’s struck by a strange sense of deja-vu. But it’s not quite so strange when she realizes that they used to be this: Shoulder-bumps, surprise hugs, crooked smiles. 

_Could it be the room alone?_ Her heart swells. 

“Why’d you quit?” she asks, not really sure why she wants to know. 

“I really like my lungs.” 

Another thing that has miraculously reappeared is his light-hearted no-nonsense speech. On days full of drama, it was what she longed for the most, why she sometimes barged in here, craving conversation. It was so important to her, and she’s not sure she ever told him how much. But he must’ve known; it’s the reason why he always let her in. 

At fifteen, she felt hard and ragged. Like a rock. No one understood the loneliness that was the roaring sea of girls in her mind, the confusion that hit when the waves rose. No one understood what it was like to not be skinny, to be sick of high school, of gossip and meddling. She just wanted to go somewhere she didn’t need to hide. And that was Bellamy’s room, for some reason. 

She could come in there, dodge the Swedish Fish that he threw at her for entering without knocking, and tell him that she thought she might be gay. No awkward silence, but an ‘ _okay’_ , like she’d just told him that she wanted a purple Fruit Pop from the freezer. Not a red one like Octavia. Not anymore. 

This seemingly sudden change meant little to him, but he still understood that it had to mean a lot to _her._ So they talked about it, only as much as she wanted, and when she left she felt light, floating on her sea of girls. Without shame. 

Bellamy places his hand on top of hers, bringing her back to the present moment. “Look, I know about what happened to your mom, and I care, too. If that’s a problem, then—” 

“No. I trust you,” the words blurt out of her, years overdue. Taken aback, he stares at her until she adds, “I just don’t want you to think I’m broken. Or fragile.”

“Clarke, I already said you’re not.” 

It’s true. He did, but so did… “Finn was all talk. I never told him exactly what was wrong, but he knew that something was up and he made it his _project_ to fix me. I guess I was too rough for him like this, but he could work with me, give me cute dates at the park and shit. But when I didn’t _soften,_ when I wanted something that he didn’t offer, he lashed out—”

“Called you a bitch,” Bellamy finishes, his tone murky. 

“And you punched him.” 

It happened at the outdoor basketball court a couple of weeks ago. She’d been sitting under a big oak tree, flipping through a book of sketches by Matisse. A shade rolled over the pages, making her raise her eyes, and there he was: Six foot of _Sorry Ass_ with puppy eyes and floppy hair. As expected, he gave her the usual charade, apologized for shouting, for laughing, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he’d turned her into a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and he would never understand because, well, he’s the lead character of his own life. 

But so is she. 

That’s why she got up and started to walk, waiting for him to fall behind her, but instead, he grabbed her wrist. She shook him off, hissed at him that it was over. As he left to join the group of people on the court, he didn’t appear to understand; while she didn’t necessarily expect him to, she didn’t expect him to call her a bitch either. 

Raven told her about what transpired after she left: how Bellamy’s knuckles slammed against Finn’s jaw so hard that he almost toppled over. It was like her anger was being channeled through his fist, which is why it didn’t feel right. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he says. 

“I know.” Because he’s already said so. Then why doesn’t she _know_ that he doesn’t see her as broken?

Their eyes meet, and the lean is natural. Like pine from the trees being carried to the ocean, she’s carried to him. Their lips collide, but it’s softer, as they seem to melt together. She can hear the breath he takes, full of relief as his arm wraps around her back and his fingers press against her ribs. 

Her head becomes light while the kiss goes on and on — forever, it seems — but there is no urge to tug at his hair or to pull off his clothes. The only feeling that she can compare it to is the one that hit her while she was on top of him, the day of the barbecue, giggling against his lips. It’s similar, but not quite the same. This kiss isn’t amusing. It’s real.

Naturally, the conclusion startles her, making her break away. 

His brow furrows then, and she instantly misses him. So, she turns her attention to his wrapped knuckles, lifts them closer, but not to look. She kisses his fingertips, unlike how Bree did it. Her lips brush them as if they were rose petals, before moving to his wrist. 

He has a tattoo there. _Arete,_ written in neat cursive.

Before she can ask, a loud knock on the door rips them apart. “Clarke, I made up the guest bed for you if you’re interested.” 

The so-called _guest bed_ is an old pull-out couch in the smallest room of the house, which is barely bigger than a closet. There’s also the drawback of Octavia’s definite disapproval of her being here, especially at night. Still, this house has something that her own doesn’t: Bellamy. 

“Thank you. That means a lot,” she says over her shoulder, then goes back to admiring the freckle at the end of the tattoo that seems to act as a _period._ Idly, she presses a kiss to it and says, “I better go to bed. Before they get suspicious.”

“Pretty sure they’re already suspicious,” Bellamy replies as he rises to his feet. 

Afterward, he walks to his dresser, which is made of dark brown wood. He pulls out the third drawer and searches it for a minute. When his hand reemerges, it’s holding a light gray t-shirt. “Did you think about it?” he asks, referencing their snappy conversation earlier. 

_No._ “Yeah.” 

“Why then?”

Clarke swallows, admitting, “I still don’t know.”

Smiling, he walks over, hands her the shirt. “It’s because you actually _needed_ that one. You didn’t just want it.”

Unsure, she lets her fingers graze the soft fabric because she doesn’t know if she dares to take it. In the end, she decides to tell him, “Your sister will kill me if I come downstairs tomorrow, wearing this. I’ll sleep in my underwear.”

Bellamy hums, and his eyes run over her in a way that they haven’t in this room before, consumed by shades of want. After a second, he glances at his feet, shaking himself out of the trance. “Since you know that I care and there’s no stopping it, you should know that I called about your mom.” 

Right now, Clarke doesn’t think it’s necessary to tell him that she overheard. Instead, she curls her hands into fists, wishes that she was clutching something soft, like his tee, and asks, “Oh? What’d they say?” 

When he hesitates, dread sticks to her heart. “She suffered a bad seizure shortly after they brought her in, so she’s been in the ICU overnight.” 

In the matter of a second, Clarke feels every muscle in her body tense up. The ICU is where they put her after the accident; it’s where she had to drink her meals through a straw until she was strong enough to hold a fork, where she felt the warmth drain from her world when they told her that her dad didn’t make it. But there was someone holding her hand through it. 

Her mom is alone. 

“Clarke? Are you alright?”

She looks at him, breathes out. “Can you take me to the hospital tomorrow? I wanna see her.” 

An indiscernible emotion washes over Bellamy’s face at her words. Then he steps closer as if he’s not sure whether to hug her. He doesn’t. Instead, he brushes his thumb across her cheekbone. “Of course.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case you're wondering when there will be more smut: the next chapter should have a fair amount ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have this huge 7k chapter! :)
> 
> (see the notes at the end for content warnings)

> _i've been twisting to the sun  
>  i needed to replace  
> and the fountain in the front yard is rusted out  
> all my love was down  
> in a frozen ground _
> 
> **_— re:stacks_ **

Bellamy is in the kitchen, cutting up a peach. Clarke leans against the doorframe to watch as the golden sun rays encompass him, making his hands glow like bronze while they skillfully carve little pieces off the fruit; he eats them off the back of the blade, unafraid. 

“Morning,” she says, battling a grin when his eyes widen. 

The surprise only lasts for a moment, then he twists his head, flashing the sparks in his eyes. It makes her wonder how the hell anyone can be _that_ awake at 8 am. “Oh, hey. Made coffee.” He nods toward the pot at the opposite counter, but when she tries to reach for it, his arm swings back, barring her way. “What’s the password?” 

“Shut up.”

At that, he smiles. “Sorry, that’s incorrect.” 

Swiftly, he moves his arm off the counter, wraps it around her waist to pull her close. In this narrow proximity, she catches a wisp of his deodorant — lemon, pine — and the warmth rolls off his body, seeping into her skin as his hand flexes against her spine. The vibrations from his touch drive the remaining grogginess out of her mind; heat pools in her cheeks and her throat dries out. 

_God, it’s too early for this._

When her heart leaps, Clarke forces herself to step away and pour a cup of coffee, defying his request for the _password,_ whatever the hell that might be. Still, it’s refreshing to encounter this version of him: It reminds her of how he acted with her in his room last night, but now he seems more relaxed as if he’s less burdened in the bright hours of the morning. 

If she weren’t already convinced that he’s trying to mess with her, it becomes clear as he opens the fridge and hands her the jug of milk. “I need to teach you to drink it black.” 

The suggestion makes Clarke scrunch up her nose. “No fucking way.” 

To accentuate her opposition, she jumps onto the counter and kicks her feet, sipping her milky coffee with exaggerated delight. She enjoys feeling his dark gaze linger on her when she sighs and lets her eyelids fall shut. 

Maybe he can tell that she’s thinking about having sex with him in the morning, limbs still heavy from sleep but entangled with the sheets; the sunrise painting his back. 

Fingers touch her thigh, which isn’t imagined. Warm and familiar, they trace her skin until they reach the border of her skirt. Clarke opens her eyes to find him hungry, his lips still glistening from peach juice. 

_Not here._

“Can I have the rest of that?” she asks, her voice raspy, gesturing to the fruit on the counter. 

Bellamy appears bewildered as if broken out of a trance, but he gives her the peach. Playfully, she bites into the flesh, and its pure sweetness swells on her tongue. He’s smiling as he backs away, which tells her that he’s fine with them not crossing the line in his mother’s kitchen. That turns out to be a wise decision. 

A minute later, Octavia strides into the kitchen, pulls a box of honey granola out of a cabinet. Clarke’s heart jumps at the familiar sight of the ponytail and purple headphones but plummets when she remembers the vast, poisoned waters between them.

“Going for a run?” Bellamy asks, watching his little sister tear the lid off a vanilla soy yogurt. 

“No, I’m hitting the gym with Kara. I have to stay in shape since I got the scholarship... Shouldn’t you be at work?” 

Leaning back against the counter, he replies, “Took the day off.” 

Octavia’s brow furrows. “Why? You haven’t taken a day off in—well, ever.” Then, she turns around, noticing her former friend, and the piercing realization reaches her eyes: _This has something to do with you, hasn’t it?_

Clarke’s body goes rigid, but she can’t lower her gaze. Intensity is something that both of the Blake siblings have inherited from their mom, but theirs is unpolished and callous as opposed to awe-inspiring. Of the two siblings, Octavia is the least refined. She can be terrifying even when silent. 

Picking up on the tension that has arisen in the room, Bellamy explains, “I’m taking Clarke to the hospital.” 

“Of course you are,” is his sister’s comment; the scorn that clings to each syllable brings a deep furrow to Bellamy’s brow.

“Yeah. Who else is gonna do it? Obviously not you.” After biting out this defense, he goes a step further, moving to the counter that Clarke’s perched on. He’s carrying his coffee cup and the weight of a broken friendship, yet he doesn’t flinch. Not at all. 

At this moment, he’s metaphorically and _literally_ picking sides. The tense atmosphere in the room thickens with his choice, making Clarke feel antsy. To keep them from fidgeting, she locks her hands beneath her thighs. 

His sister stares at him, her blue eyes narrowing. He just takes another sip of his coffee, unfazed. Years ago, Clarke had moments like that, too, of standing strong in the face of a hurricane but, since the accident, her courage has dwindled. 

Clutching her breakfast, Octavia finally leaves the room. 

Bellamy turns to Clarke as if nothing unusual just happened, as if the shadows aren’t lingering in the kitchen. “Since I’m a free man today, we should do something.” 

Clarke tilts her head, wondering if she misheard. “You wanna _hang out_ with me?” 

Truth be told, she and Bellamy have never done that. More than anything, their relationship _Before_ consisted of spontaneous talks in his room. They didn’t seek each other out. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t drawn toward one another… 

“No. I wanna spend time with you.” 

That makes her laugh. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

As it turns out, not quite. To hang out would be to bloom in the passenger seat of his car during a ride to the park or another simple place, maybe the video arcade. Instead, Bellamy drives his Chevy past the green **_You Are Now Leaving ARK CITY_** sign.

Clarke turns around to watch as it disappears into the distance, then caves, “Where are we going?”

He smiles, his expression loaded with mysteries. 

Unsurprised by his secrecy, she opens the glove compartment in search of a lollipop. This time, she manages to pry it open on her own, even without a crowbar, and Bellamy’s eyes crinkle at her triumphant: “Ha!”

“I do love a strong, independent woman.” 

_His very own Jane Eyre._

She sticks her tongue out at him before popping the piece of candy in her mouth. This is a lemonade one, and the flavor that bursts on her tastebuds reminds her of the scent that sticks to his skin. Just sweeter. Knowing now that it doesn’t annoy him, she removes her sandals, lets her toes dance in the cool breeze of the AC. 

Soon, her thoughts drift. “Octavia talked about a scholarship?”

Though he appears a bit surprised at her interest, his eyebrows arching, he still beams. “Yeah. She got into UCLA because of her cross-country performance this year.” 

_No wonder._ During their senior year, she broke the women’s record of the school, which had been held by the same person for nearly two decades. At the final race, Clarke was standing on the sidelines, cheering for her in spite of everything, but she doubts that Octavia knows that. It was devastating to watch her pass by, a blur of colors, before the finish line, hoping that she would see her — really _see_ her. 

She didn’t. 

Swallowing the tight lump in her throat, Clarke turns to him. “LA, huh? That’s a long way.” 

“Could be worse.” Bellamy wets his lips before adding, “I’m so proud of her,” as if it ever needed to be said. 

Maybe it’s because he didn’t go to college. Everyone who lives in Ark knows that Aurora Blake’s oldest child is bright in more than one way; he doesn’t just mimic the sun when he smiles. Five years ago, the sleepy town watched as he graduated at the top of his class and tossed his blue cap into the sky. The whispers swirled through the streets, reaching Clarke: _He might become a lawyer or a scientist, that boy. Oh, she must be so relieved._

He had everything he needed, it seemed: Talent, support, and money from the several scholarships that he was granted. But, once September rolled around, bringing fog and hard truths, it became clear that he wasn’t going. Not to Columbia, not to Stanford or NYU. Not even to North Dakota State. Instead, he decided to stay in this idle town and work his ass off for minimum wage at Wendy’s. 

That doesn’t make _any_ sense. 

“Why didn’t you go, Bellamy? To college?” the question flies off her lips right as he brakes and puts the car in park. 

She should be looking out of the window to see where they are, but her eyes are trained on him. He seems frozen in place for a moment. Then he picks up the candy wrapper that she’s left next to the stick shift, crumbles it up in his hand. Finally, he says, “I didn’t want to.”

“What? That’s—”

His gaze lands on her, hard. “Stop. I’m not talking about it.”

Clarke wants to tell him that, at this point, she’s sick of _not talking._ But as she’s plucking up the courage to form those words, he leaves the car. Through the glass, she sees him inhale the humid air. She pushes the frustration aside and joins him. 

It takes her a minute to realize that she knows where they are: _Shallow Valley,_ the neighboring town. It’s been years since she was here because her family usually drove in the opposite direction toward Mountain Lane, the biggest city in the area.

The main street of Shallow Valley is lined with cozy shops and cafes, dressed in romantic pastels. There’s a grand fountain in the center: Shimmering bronze fish are leaping out of the pool with strings of water pouring from their open mouths. 

Bellamy turns to the left instead of heading North for the shopping area, and the path takes them down a cobbled street of charming, old houses. As opposed to Ark, which has been modernized in some parts, and Mountain Lane, which is dominated by glass fronts and skyscrapers, Shallow Valley still holds most of its traditional architecture. 

He stops where the street ends, cut off by a wooden fence and a wall of wild brush. The house in front of them looks small though it’s in two stories; its walls are painted a faded yellow color, and orange roses are climbing toward the shutters on the first-floor windows. 

To her sheer surprise, he pulls a key out of his jean pocket. “Sorry, I promise that we’ll get to the hospital, but—I wanted to show you this.” 

The lock clicks, allowing him to swing the door open. Once she’s followed him inside, the scent of firewood encompasses her. He flicks a switch next to the door, making the strings of fairy lights along the ceiling glow like fireflies. “Welcome to my humble home, Princess.” 

Her brain short-circuits for a moment. “... Your home?”

Baffled, Clarke takes in the space: A living room that’s nothing like her own, not too big or flashy. But it bears no resemblance to his bedroom at his mom’s house either: The walls are peachy and the furniture is unpolished, the navy blue paint chipping off the coffee table. 

“Yeah. I haven’t _really_ moved in yet, but soon…it's just waiting for me.”

Beaming with pride, Bellamy sits down the couch that matches the dark green plant next to it. When she sits down beside him, she’s pleased that the couch is as comfortable as it looks; she wants to sink into it.

Though it’s naive, she’s never pictured him leaving the bungalow down the street. She should’ve known that the time was coming since he’s twenty-three, but the thought of life everchanging is difficult. It makes her dwell on everything that she would’ve done differently if she had the chance to do it over. 

Looking at him now, Clarke knows that she would’ve reached out to him sooner. A lot sooner. 

“Everything okay? Has my awful decorating made you speechless?” On the surface, it sounds as if he’s joking, but she can hear the nervous strain in each syllable. 

“No. I mean, _no,_ it’s not awful, it’s great. I’m happy for you.” Despite her best efforts, that last part sounds squeakier than she’d like. 

Bellamy’s eyes soften. “It’s a bit weird, huh?” 

“Yeah… why are you showing me?” 

It seems like a strange leap for their relationship to take, especially at this time. Being let in here leads to unexpected discoveries about the man who has — until now — lived in a minimalistic sanctuary: Apparently, he has a fondness for trinkets, like the knitted cat that acts as a door-stopper and a tiny pill box with waves painted on the lid. He doesn’t need a TV either.

Grinning, Bellamy replies, “You were bound to find out soon anyway and I could use your expertise.” 

“For what?” 

“Picking out art. I trust your eye more than mine.” 

_Is he serious?_ The thought of them rummaging through thrift shops and flea markets in search of the perfect pieces sends her heart into a confusing swirl of emotions. 

Afterward, when he points out several places in the kitchen-and-living area that could do with an artistic touch, it’s obvious that he’s not kidding. Because of this, Clarke takes the situation as seriously as he does, perhaps even more so. 

“You could use some more light in here,” she says honestly, noticing that large shadows dominate the space in spite of the windows. “We should keep to the bright colors.” 

With that settled, their hunt begins. To her surprise, it’s as though Bellamy has already lived half a lifetime in this town. On their way to the first thrift store, he tells her where to find the best gelato, the best cup of coffee, and the prettiest trails. He says that the first house he looked at was by a grove a mile away from the main street.

“It was breathtaking. I wanted to make an offer, actually, but then Kane asked if I wanted the house, closer to the town center—” He holds the door open for her; a tiny bell chimes as they enter. “—I couldn’t refuse.”

For a moment, Clarke is too stunned by the store to note the familiar name because it’s not an ordinary thrift store: It’s bursting at the seams, with pillars of old books, heaps of vintage magazines and, last but not least, several rows of old paintings stuffed in cardboard boxes. The scent that meets her nostrils breeds a strong sense of nostalgia, but she has no idea why. 

“As you see, Princess, we have a lot to unpack.” 

Her fingertips are itching to touch the canvasses, and yet she bites back the urge long enough to ask, “Wait, did you say ‘Kane’? As in _Marcus_ Kane?” 

Bellamy’s already flipping the paintings in the first box. “Yeah, I met him at the community center four years ago,” he says, skipping over each word. “We kinda bonded, I guess. I told him about my family. So, when his mom died and left the house to him, he called me up, said he didn’t really want it. That it was mine if I did.”

In truth, it’s a little too random for Clarke to make sense of it, but she doesn’t want to impose with questions. Still, _Marcus Kane? Doing something like this?_ It’s odd. Maybe it’s because Wells’ accounts of him — when he was serving as a top advisor to his dad — didn’t paint him in a favorable light. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, Clarke starts searching, too. Over the next couple of hours, they both find little diamonds in the rough: She’s swept off her feet by a medium-sized painting of a golden field; it's embellished by bright cornflowers and impressionistic, reminding her of Monet. She’s sold and, luckily, Bellamy is, too. 

“What do you think?” he asks, showing her a framed watercolor. “Too sexy?” 

“Not for a bedroom.” The drawing is of a naked woman with her back turned; her hair is in a loose braid, woven with flowers that must’ve been picked from the flourishing garden around her. “But why does she look like me?” 

She does... the body shape, the hair, everything… 

When Bellamy scratches the back of his head, she feels her chest glow with pride. “It’s Aphrodite, I think. But yeah. Maybe I just have a type these days.” 

To her relief, his attention returns to the stacks before the blush creeps into her cheeks. 

They find the painting for the kitchen at the same time, seemingly. When it comes into view, they both reach for it despite its simplicity: An oil painting of two oranges left on a tabletop. The sun seems to be setting, washing the bright peels and dark wood in mellow light. It’ll look beautiful on the wall next to his fridge. 

* * *

On the way to Mountain Lane Memorial Hospital, Bellamy gives her another lollipop to keep her from worrying her lips to shreds. Though the sweetness of it registers on her tastebuds, the actual flavor doesn’t. It’s reminiscent of licking grain sugar off your palm. Clarke used to do that as a kid sometimes, so it’s fitting that she feels like a child now, shrinking in her seat. 

She wants to tell him that she’s changed her mind, that she wants to go back, but she knows that she can’t. She has to do this today. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s now or never, but she doesn’t want to think about that too much. 

“Can we listen to music?”

Glancing at her, Bellamy nods. Once the radio is attuned to his playlist, a song that Clarke doesn’t know flows from the speakers. It might be unfamiliar, but it brings her back to the simplest time of her life: Childhood — _“Are your lights still on? Are your lights still on? I’ll keep you safe, you keep me strong.” —_ was when the world felt the most like a real home. 

She looks at him and wonders if he chose this song hoping it would soothe her, just as the trip to the thrift store felt like escapism that he'd arranged for her. 

When he speaks, it all but confirms her theory, “You know, after… if you don’t wanna go back to the house with my sister there and everything, we can stay at my house for the night.”

He’s doing whatever he can to _be there_ for her. It seems odd after two years of absence, but maybe it’s not.

“And what about your mom and Octavia? They’ll know about it, won’t they?”

Bellamy taps lightly on the steering wheel with his finger. “I’ve lied to them before, Clarke.” 

A shadow falls on his face just then, and though it could be the sunlight shifting, there might be something else behind it; something that goes beyond his lies about _them._ At this moment, she knows better than to pry. 

Minutes later, they’ve parked in front of the hospital. To most people, it might look nice with its countless glass windows and bronze statues by the entrances, but Clarke feels dizzy when her eyes land on it. Her body starts producing adrenaline as if it’s the only thing that will keep her upright. 

(Hell, it might be.)

“You ready?” Bellamy eyes, his hand on the door handle.

 _This is where they brought me._ Swallowing hard, she pushes the memories away. “I’m—I have to be.” 

“No, you don’t,” he tells her, the words dipped in earnest. “You really don’t. You tell me you don’t wanna be here? We’ll be on the road again before you can say ‘tournesol’.” As her mind flashes back to their afternoon amongst the sunflowers, she’s grateful, more than ever, that he is here. 

Taking a deep breath, she finally opens the car door. It’s a burden, to overthink each step across the flawless concrete, while her heart seeks to break her ribcage. Bellamy keeps close to her, but not too close; the inch of space between them allows her to breathe, but with every inhale she can smell his cologne. It’s surprisingly soothing, even now. 

At the info desk, she clutches his arm, a wordless plea, and he does the talking, “We’re here to see Abigail Griffin.” 

“ID, please.”

When the secretary has verified Clarke’s identity, she tells them that they’re in luck. Apparently, her mom was transferred out of the ICU this morning. Under normal circumstances, knowing this would make her feel more at ease, but her surroundings are too familiar, too haunting: The heavy scent of cleanliness, the white coats and red scrubs passing by like creatures from her nightmares. 

They head toward Room 17 where her mom is, but the closer they get the more her body protests. The rush of adrenaline that she felt in the parking lot has all but evaporated, and there’s nothing to push her forward. In fact, it seems as if her brain is shutting down, willfully forgetting how to put one foot in front of the other. 

They’re so close that she can see the number on the door, and the color drains from her face. 

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, stopping dead in his tracks. “You can do this.” 

For some reason, his message has changed in the span of minutes. Though she’s sure that he’d still let her run away if she had to, he’s no longer giving her a blank cheque. He’s challenging her to keep moving. And, it turns out, that’s just what she needs. 

To help, he takes her hand, interlaces their fingers. But they’re not walking among flowers. They’re marching right into the most painful part of her memories. 

A middle-aged nurse looks at them through her square glasses. “Who are you?”

Clarke keeps her eyes trained on her to keep them from falling on the singular bed. On her mom. “Her daughter.”

“Son-in-law,” Bellamy lies, perhaps to justify the way he’s caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. It makes her picture a world, in which it could be true; a world that could have them linked so closely.

The nurse nods (to her, a world like that isn’t _absurd_ ), then leaves the room. Clarke takes her place by the bedside, wanting to maintain the determination that has suddenly struck her body. But, of course, it’s fleeting. When she sees her mom’s pale skin and dry lips, her stomach drops. Just to be sure, she glances at the heart monitor. The rate is normal. 

At last, her eyelids flutter open. Still, the brown shades of her irises are clouded. The relief goes up in smoke. “Honey?” her voice is raspy, so Clarke takes the plastic cup of water off the bedside table, gives it to her. 

“Yeah, Mom. I’m here.” The words sounded soothing in her head, but when they emerge they’ve lost the softness of empathy; they’re hard, cold, and Clarke wishes that the tone wasn’t a perfect reflection of how she feels, but it is. “How are you?” 

It’s that question that becomes more stupid every time someone asks it. When she was in the hospital, she was forced to answer it a million times, offering the same response as her mom does right now, “I’m fine.”

_Oh, the universal lie._

Clarke doesn’t want to waste any time, so she exposes it immediately, “No. You need help, and I’m gonna get you that, okay?”

Her mom closes her eyes, leaning her head back as though she’s sick of hearing it, but she’s only heard it a couple of times from her own daughter. There have been many nights of Clarke lying wide awake, wondering if she could do more than she did; more than cleaning up the traces and giving the occasional lecture. 

“Thelonious was here this morning. He said the same thing.”

Something about her attitude is making Clarke fume. “You don’t think you need it?” she says, struggling to keep the tremors out of her voice. At this moment, she is half woman, half volcano, but it’s better than rocking back and forth in the corner, riddled by the anxiety that still looms in her body. 

“No, I _do_. I have a problem, I know that. I work too much.” 

“And when you don’t?” Clarke prompts, her hands trembling. She needs to hear her admit it; to acknowledge the pills that she’s crushed into a fine powder and the expensive bottles of wine that she’s poured down the drain to keep it out of her system. 

Her mom presses her lips to a thin line. “I... self-medicate,” she finally murmurs, though not without shifting awkwardly, unsettled by reality. Then she turns her attention to Bellamy, stumbling to change the subject, “Did you drive her here?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 _And you saved her life. Give yourself some credit._ Clarke hopes that the words shine through her eyes as she looks at him. He doesn’t because it probably doesn’t matter to him. But it does to her. 

“He pulled you out of the car, too, called the ambulance.”

Abby nods slowly. “I know. The doctors told me. Thank you, Bellamy.” 

Just like her apologies, this expression of gratitude comes too little too late. Even though Clarke wants to be angry for that, she has to live with it; it’s better than nothing, and yet it’s not good enough to suppress what really needs to be discussed. 

“Mom, I need you to go to rehab. At _Light Springs._ I’m sure Thelonious would love to help you,” she says, and the bluntness of it makes her mom’s eyes widen. “When you’re discharged, I want that to be the first thing you do.”

“Clarke, I—” 

_Enough._ “ _Please, Mom._ You OD'd. Don't argue with me. If you don’t do this, then I just know I can’t trust you." Curling her hands into fists, she fights to keep the tears at bay. "It’s not too much to ask, that you try to get clean after everything that I’ve done to cover up your mess. I don’t wanna do it anymore. I have my own life to worry about.”

Six months ago, she would’ve been horrified by the idea of talking to her mom like this, but the words need to sting. Otherwise, it won’t resonate with her. Before she tried this cold approach, she did what she could to be empathic. It didn’t solve anything, and she’s pretty sure that revealing her fear won’t work either. 

Still, she adds, “I’m done being terrified for you. This was the last straw. Either you seek help or you say goodbye to me. For good.” 

Glancing at Bellamy, she sees him holding onto the back of the hospital bed, his expression unreadable. That’s more than can be said for her mom, whose hazel eyes are glistening with tears. This is an ultimatum that she didn’t expect, not from her eighteen-year-old daughter, but it has to be this way. It has to be… 

“Do you understand?” Clarke eyes, her voice crumbling at the edges.

Her mom nods; a terrifying kind of silence rises with the movement, and Clarke closes her eyes, expecting the worst, expecting the refusal that will destroy everything that she has left. 

But nothing changes.

“I’ll see you when you’ve been discharged,” is the last thing she says before heading for the escape. 

The beeping of the monitors follows her out, is amplified by the dark memories that she managed to suppress for as long as she was in there. Bellamy shuts the door, and the loud sound reverberates through her bones; it’s the gateway to all of it: the pain, the nightmares, the overwhelming nausea. Her body remembers _everything._

Feeling dizzy, Clarke stumbles back against the wall. Her feet cave in, no longer strong enough to keep her standing. Within seconds, Bellamy’s crouching in front of her, cradling her face. The warmth from his palms coaxes the blood to flow to her cheeks again. “It’s alright. Just breathe, okay?” 

When she speaks, it doesn’t sound like her voice. “I’m—I need a moment, that’s all.” 

Bellamy stands, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sure, but you can have that moment in the car. Let’s get you out of here.” 

* * *

The _moment_ passes briskly, with breathing; her bare toes tapping against the floor of the car while she tries to wipe her mind clean. When it’s done, she looks at him. Words have never mattered less. He takes her away, along the road, and she feels strangely closer to the sky, to the deepening blues of the afternoon. It is here, _now,_ that she wonders if he has the same core as he always did: effortless comfort. 

Bellamy Blake doesn’t need to try. 

But, sometimes, he does anyway. “I’ll make you a bath when we get home.”

 _Home._ The way he says it, a slip of the tongue carrying all of the common fondness, makes her smile, even though her jaw still feels tight. “You’ll _make_ me a bath? It’s possible that you forget, but I’m not actually a princess. You don’t need to pamper me.” 

He grins. “Alright, but I’m cooking dinner. You’re not burning the house down.”

It’s too early to eat when they arrive at his house, so Bellamy points her to the bathroom. Technically, it’s not an ensuite, but it’s still right next to his bedroom. Once she’s stepped in there, her eyes are caught by the charming bathtub, made of shining copper. Kane’s mom probably left it behind, and yet it seems like something that Bellamy might’ve invested in, fit for a Roman god. 

Or Aphrodite. Clarke wants to roll her eyes when she recalls him likening her to a deity but, truth be told, she’s too affected by it. 

She undresses as the tub is filled with water, pours the soap from the rack into it. In mere seconds, the room smells of the sea. She can’t wait to soak in it. Sinking into the warm water, she feels her muscles sigh at the sensation. When her eyelids flutter shut, she remembers vacations to California and the white sand beaches; the waves foaming as her dad ran through them. 

His laughter rings in her ears, eternal. 

Sadness pierces her heart, makes her want to sink even further, but there’s something that locks her out of memory lane, binding her to the present: Bellamy’s voice, low and calm, behind the wall; he’s singing to the soothing strum of guitar strings.

 _Singing._ It’s one of those songs where you can’t clearly hear the lyrics, but the voice is definitely his, breathy yet elegant, slightly dark. It makes her heart buzz like a honeybee, and she listens closely, hoping to decipher some of the words — _“When your money’s gone and you’re drunk as hell… I’ve been twisting to the sun… All my love was down in a frozen ground…” —_ his voice drops even lower; it’s obvious that he doesn’t want her to listen, but she can’t help it. 

Finally, she catches a complete passage, “ _This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization; it’s the sound of the unlocking and the lift away. Your love will be safe with me.”_ Now, it sounds as if he’s singing and, in part, talking; the rhythm of each word has slowed, mimicking the pattern of his normal speech, but it’s still surrounded by the sweet music. 

It manages to stir something within her, right before it stops. There’s no careful fadeout, just the rustle of feet against floorboards and the sliding of a closet door. As her fingertips prune, she wonders why he’d hide the guitar away. Most people who can play an instrument tend to flaunt it. Bellamy’s doing the opposite. 

She steps out of the tub, her mind whirling from the new information, and wraps a white towel around her body; it’s fluffy, like the ones in hotel rooms. With the echo of his voice still playing through her mind, she strolls into his bedroom. In there, it looks as if she might’ve imagined everything: He’s sitting cross-legged on the king-sized bed, now reading a book. Shirtless. 

He was right. All of the natural sunlight is given to this room, which has left it blazing. 

Raising his eyes, Bellamy exposes her to the countless sparks in them. At this moment, she doesn’t know if she should adjust her towel or just let it fall. When he closes the book, the _snap_ of the spine awakens her senses, which had become subdued after the bath. But it also spurs her into motion, fills her with a striking determination. 

Today, she’s not waiting for him. She’s not waiting for anyone. 

Clarke unwraps the towel, doesn’t give him even a moment to drink her in before she walks to the end of the bed. As she places a hand to his warm sternum, she loves how his eyes roam hers, not out of concern. This isn’t a bathroom stall; there’s no tremor to her movements. She unbuckles his belt without hesitation, and he leans forward to kiss her pulse point. 

“You’re so sexy like this,” he says, grinning against her skin. 

It’s contagious, and she suppresses a giggle when his lips graze her earlobe.

“Bellamy. Lie down,” the words emerge, coated in forced seriousness that makes both of them burst out laughing; it fills her with relief. Wielding that, crawling on top of him feels natural. 

He smiles, wrapping his hands around the back of her head, and kisses her. His fingers brush through the golden waves of her hair, his lips melting against hers in the same way that they did in his mom’s house. It feels all the better now that they’re in _his._ Slowly, his hand travels to her back, causing her to break away. 

“Don’t you dare,” she tells him, pressing her thumb to the dimple in his chin. 

Grinning, Bellamy palms her ass instead, insisting, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” but his voice is riddled with fake innocence. 

“Bullshit. You were gonna flip us.” 

“ _No way,_ I swear.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at this, fishes a condom out of his nightstand drawer. “I’m gonna make you regret even _thinking_ about it,” she assures him as she rolls it on and watches his grin fade a little with the pleasure when she jerks him slowly. “Not so cocky now, are we? … Or…” he snorts at her purposely bad innuendo. 

For some reason, it suddenly feels as if they’ve been doing this for ten years — the sex, the little talks — and the thing that reminds her that they have, in fact, _not,_ is the sting that burns through her as she sinks onto him. 

She should’ve adjusted to him by now, shouldn’t she? 

“Are you okay?”

Despite the strong urge to lie, Clarke knows that doing so breaks about a hundred silent agreements, so she bites back the embarrassment and admits, “It hurts a bit.” 

A soft smile graces his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ve got just the right thing.” 

That _thing_ is lube. While it doesn’t surprise her, it still feels disappointing. They’ve never needed it before. She’s always been able to pull through the initial pain, and she could probably do it now, too, but Bellamy’s pretty adamant as he slicks himself up, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. It’s my fault for not being prepared enough for the first few times.” He worries his bottom lip, lies down again. “I’m really sorry about that.” 

Shaking the remaining awkwardness off, Clarke climbs back on top of him. “It’s okay.” 

The second time is effortless, almost. Without the persistent sting of friction, she can revel in the sensation of having him inside her; it’s tight yet pleasant. Once she starts moving, it feels even better, and that’s in spite of her clumsy attempt at finding a nice rhythm. After a minute, Bellamy’s hands wrap around her waist to help her.

At the first perfect thrust, she throws her head back, the pleasure pulsing through her body. “ _Oh._ ”

“Shit, that’s it,” Bellamy hisses. “That’s it, Babe.”

Clarke places her hands on his chest and leans forward a bit, changing the angle while keeping up the pace. A filthy moan falls off his lips, but what surprises her the most is how much she wants to kiss him, to swallow the sounds he makes. Too bad his lips are out of her reach. 

Instead, she explores the unknown. Reaching behind her, she touches the back of his thighs. His breath catches, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Struck by curiosity, she leans forward again and presses her lips to his lower abs; there’s a thin trail of dark hair that she follows with her fingertip until it stops where they are connected. 

“Are you bored or something?” he asks her lightheartedly, and she realizes that she’s stopped moving. 

Clarke tries to force a scowl, but it only crumbles on her face. Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks at him and hopes that he’ll read the question in her eyes because her mouth won’t form it. 

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice soft. “Do what you’d like.”

She feels somewhat childish moving off his cock in favor of kissing his earlobe. When he shudders, it sends a delicate tremor through her lips. Her heart flutters, making confidence spark in her chest again, and she kisses a path down his throat, making his pulse throb as she brushes it with her teeth; 

then she continues along his sternum and ribcage. 

Bellamy’s deep hum rings through her ears.

He’s _stunning._ His skin is soft, warm, and dusted in freckles. Though she has seen him shirtless numerous times before, she hasn’t touched his abs. _A crime,_ no doubt. Now, she feels them; his armor, dressed in bronze. When she reaches them, she realizes just how sharp his hipbones are, forming a strong V that pulls her eyes towards his erection. 

Taking pity on him, she wraps her hand around the base of him, strokes him once.

Bellamy drags his bottom lip between his teeth, and his eyelashes flutter. “Christ.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth; more than anything, she loves being able to break his silences. It makes it seem more as if she’s having sex with a person, and not a god who could carry her everywhere if he wanted to, who’s used to being naked and sprawled across sheets. 

It might be wrong, but she searches for fragility; she doesn’t expect to find it, but — against all odds — she does, whilst kissing his inner thighs. His breath quivers and he trembles like a leaf in the breeze. At the same time, he doesn’t tell her to stop; just pants her name every few seconds until it begins to sound like a distant, choked echo. “ _Clarke... “_

When Bellamy finally pulls her toward him, he releases a small gasp. Then he flips them, pinning her beneath him, and right before he buries his face in her neck she sees the tears glistening in his earthy eyes. A twitch of worry pokes at her heart.

He huffs against her throat; he feels heavy on top of her as he slowly reduces her to questions. 

But she doesn’t have time to ask them. In the matter of a moment, he’s gathered himself enough to put on another condom and hike her right leg upon his back. The tears have gone from his eyes like clouds from the sky, though his gaze is softer now. 

“Are you okay with this?” he asks.

Clarke nods, sensing the confusion moving to the back of her mind as he slips inside her. Their eyes are locked, a fusion of ocean and earth, making the stretch less painful; the ache is lost to intensity, and to the way he weaves his fingers into her hair. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he tells her quietly, wrapping his hand around her ivory thigh, hoisting it up to his shoulder; it challenges her flexibility but, _god,_ the angle is heaven. “I’m just—” 

It makes little sense to her that he’d be running his mouth now, considering his usual wordless demeanor and the fact that the galaxy is bursting behind her eyelids. Adding to the weirdness, he fucks her harder as if he’s annoyed. But he’s not, that’s the kicker, and when she moans, he tries to speak again. 

She presses her fingers to his mouth. 

Before he comes, Bellamy reaches in between them to rub at her clit; the circles are rough and messy, but they still drive her to the edge. As he swells inside her, the warmth that rises through her body gives her the final push, makes her keen against him.

Once he’s rolled off her, Clarke glances out of the window and finds the sky lilac. Cloudy, sort of like the air in this room now. His panting adds to the intensity while he stares at the ceiling as though it were covered in stars. 

“Uh,” he starts, worrying his lips. “Are you hungry?” 

Clarke blinks, confused. “No.” 

Sensing the tension weighing on him, she leans in and presses a chaste kiss to his ear. “Hold me, please.” 

To her relief, he smirks at the request, wraps his arm around her back. For a moment, they lie like that, her hand on his chest, his chin resting on top of her head. The heaviness drifts away, leaving them to bathe in the afterglow. Then, suddenly, he repeats, “You didn’t do anything wrong... I just got emotional.” 

Though the words sound simple, his voice is straining them. 

She lifts her eyes to look at him. “Why does it seem like you’re apologizing to me for it?” 

“Because… when you started having sex with me, I can’t imagine you pictured tears being a part of it. Not yours, not mine. That’s why you didn’t want me to _know,_ right? I guess it’s all falling apart. And quickly, too.”

To distract herself from the heavy lump in her throat, Clarke toys with a stray curl on his forehead. 

“I’m sorry for that,” he says. “I thought I could be detached. I just can’t.” Finally, Bellamy meets her gaze, and his eyes resemble dark, sorrowful pools. “... I hate how my sister treats you. I wish I’d known about your mom sooner. I want to spend more time with you than I already do—”

“Well, I _am_ awesome,” she says, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. There’s nothing like a little teasing smugness to invoke a lost smile. “Seriously, Bellamy, let me ask you a question: Why do you think I went to you?” 

He frowns as he wonders. “Because you already had a connection to me, so it was—”

“No. Because I didn’t. Not anymore.” Pausing, she trails her fingertip along the lines of his abs. “I felt as if I didn’t know you anymore. I didn’t know why you punched Finn when you hadn’t seemed to care for the last two years. It bothered me. I had to do _something_ about it.”

Soft realization paints over Bellamy’s thoughtful expression. “And?”

“And that’s why you don’t have to feel bad about opening up to me. Sure, I didn’t expect it at first, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.” 

Truth be told, she loves how they seem to be reclaiming spaces in each other’s lives. But they’ve gone way beyond what they used to be; surpassed the lighthearted conversation, the hugs, and the fine line that existed between them. She doesn’t know how far they could go if they dared. 

Lying here in his arms, she feels safe enough to wonder if, at some point, they’ll fall in love. 

It still seems strange, everything considered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: mentions and discussions of an overdose and substance abuse


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! :) ngl i'm pretty proud of this one. 
> 
> please be aware that the content warnings for this chapter are not the same as the previous ones. so, if you feel like you need to be prepared, the warnings are, as always, in the notes at the end.

> _come with me_
> 
> _there are people_
> 
> _who cannot speak_
> 
> _without smiling_
> 
> _—_ **_the wisp sings_ **

As always, Clarke is woken up by the sun. This morning, it takes the shape of him pressing idle kisses to her cheeks and nose. His lips chase her sleepiness away without pausing to question if they should be using these means to do it. She kicks her feet against his, the crisp duvet rustling with her giddy movements. 

There’s a smile etched onto her face, bliss in her heart.

 _(‘Oh no’_ the thought barely registers). 

And she asks him, “What time is it?” realizing that she couldn’t care less. She tries to curl up by his chest again, but he makes it difficult, lowering his head to look at her. 

“7 AM. I’m leaving for work in a couple of hours. Do you want me to drive you home, or do you wanna stay here?” 

Nothing seems more unappealing than returning to a house that’s so big and hollow it echoes when she tries to live in it.

Clarke meets his gaze, finding it gentle, and runs her hand along his arm. “Can I stay?” 

No hesitation. “Of course.” 

She captures his lips in a sweet kiss, not expecting it to grow deeper. But his hand moves to her back and the heat that melts into her skin reminds her that she’s still naked from last night. Hot desire pulses through her veins when she remembers wandering through his house like the Aphrodite in his painting; she sat on his velvet couch with a bowl of leftover Sisig, blushing like a peach because he was staring at her. Once they’d finished eating dinner, he carried her upstairs and buried his head between her legs.

The tragedy behind hospital walls isn’t the only thing her body remembers. It remembers his tongue curling inside her, how pleasure rises and falls like the sea. At this moment, it fills her with renewed, raw hunger. 

“ _Bellamy,_ ” she gasps against his lips, grabbing his length. When she does, he huffs in relief and rolls on top of her. 

It’s mysterious how different it feels when they’re both dazed from sleep; his arms seem stronger as they cage her in, as though they’ve awoken just to do this. Because he doesn’t have curtains yet, she can see the sun on his back, but it’s already high and bright, doesn’t make him radiate as she pictured yesterday.

He doesn’t need it, she realizes. _He glows just fine on his own._

For some reason, she’s disappointed when he finds a condom in the nightstand drawer. She knows that it’s necessary. It shouldn’t bother her. But she’s touched him without that barrier before; as he slips inside her, she tells herself that she doesn’t crave that special kind of intimacy.

Because it already feels intimate enough like this: His thrusts are slow but too deep to be considered lazy, and their limbs are even more entangled than yesterday. 

“Good thing I’m not running late,” he murmurs, sucking on her pulse point.

“Yet,” she adds, running her foot along his calf; it makes his eyes twinkle.

“Exactly how long do you think you can keep me here?” 

Pressing a kiss below his ear, she whispers, “We’ll see.” And they do. 

It doesn’t last as long as she wants it to, but they’re both left satisfied, panting to the ceiling as boneless, sweaty bodies that glimmer in the morning light. Her skin is still buzzing, excited by his touch.

While they try to catch their breaths, she wonders if he’ll make her scream one day. She wants to feel the rawness in her throat and know that it’s not from sobs. Last night, it almost happened when he made her come twice in fifteen minutes. The weightlessness that she loves reached a higher plane, but it just took her breath away, snatching her ability to scream along with it. 

_Don’t pressure yourself,_ he told her when she voiced the concern to him afterward. _Some people just don’t do that. And this is still pretty new._

Or maybe she just needs to experience something different. The thought crosses her mind as he’s crumbling up the condom wrapper and throwing it into the trashcan by the window. 

Wrapping his arm around her, Bellamy brings her close. His dark eyes are sparkling, matching the relaxed smile on his face, so she feels that it’s safe to approach the subject, “Hey, I was just thinking that, um, maybe I could go on the pill so we can ditch the condoms. I’m getting a bit, uh… tired of them.” 

Perhaps it’s because she was expecting a quick agreement, but his callous “Oh,” hits her hard. Even harder than the unequivocal “No,” that follows. 

His brow is furrowed and his eyes have lost their shine. The sudden expressionlessness is startling, making his face look like a mask, but that only breeds more confusion in her mind, So, she challenges the facade, “That’s it? No discussion?”

 _There._ The guise breaks, his jaw clenching. 

Bellamy moves her hip, untangling their legs. Then she’s cut off by the wall of his back as he pulls on his boxers. Without glancing over his shoulder, he leaves her alone in the bedroom. Though he didn’t answer her question, she’s never heard a louder _‘No’_ in her life. 

She listens to his footsteps, thundering on the stairs. It takes her a minute, but she moves past the initial, hard-hitting bewilderment. Once she has, her blood starts to boil. Last night, he’d told her that he couldn’t be detached. So why the hell is he trying to force distance between them?

When Bellamy returns, he’s carrying a book and a cup of coffee; she’s all fire. 

It doesn’t help that he acts as if she isn’t there. Feeling colder than the winter’s breeze, he sits down and opens the book, but his eyes don’t move for more than a moment. She snatches it from his hands, bites back the urge to tear it to pieces. 

“You _can’t_ treat me like this,” she hisses, ignoring the tight lump in her throat. Bellamy stares at her, his jaw slackening as she continues, “You don’t get to fuck me and then shut me out because I said something you didn’t want me to say. Behave like a fucking adult.”

Watching as he worries his lips, Clarke doesn’t expect him to have a retort. He does. “I know, I’m sorry. This isn’t about _you._ ” 

The anger that’s conquered her body makes those words drift over her head where they can’t possess any sincere meaning or emotion. She doesn’t see his clenched knuckles or quivering bottom lip. To her, it sounds like pure condescension; it makes her razor-sharp. “God, what’s the big deal? It was just a suggestion, don’t be such a—” 

“Roma got pregnant.” 

The glass wall between them shatters. The argument is pierced by those words, splintering a thousand times over. He didn’t scream, but it feels as if someone did, leaving them rigid and cold.

Outside, the wind is dancing with the leaves of an apple tree and a bird is singing, but the sounds are delayed, an echo sent from miles away. 

Attuned to the world, Bellamy adds a few delayed words of his own, “... That’s the big deal.” 

None of the questions in Clarke’s head make any sense, but there are hundreds. Her tongue feels heavy, like lead in her mouth, and she curls up, hugging her legs. She knows that she’s going to be sitting here for a while now— even if doing nothing but listening to the silence with him. 

He sniffles, and it nearly causes an earthquake. 

When he puts his cup down on the nightstand, the coffee spills over the edges. “I… was going to start college in the spring. To give my mom an easier financial transition for when I wasn’t there anymore.” 

Clarke’s heart is racing, so instead of looking at his face, she looks at how he’s drying his hands with a tissue clumsily. “Roma, she hadn’t talked to me in a month. I thought everything was fine,” he dwells a bit on that, “then she called out of the blue. Told me. Point-blank. I didn’t question it because she was crying. And she _never_ cried.”

His face contorts, his lips twitching and jaw grinding. The sight cuts deep, crushing the moments before that had left her fuming. None of it matters now. 

Taking a ragged breath, he continues, “There wasn’t much to talk about. She’d made her choice, and I supported it. She needed 650 dollars for the abortion, but barely had 20. So, as I should, I took the money out of my savings and transferred them to her.” As he speaks, his dark eyes are hazy as if the memories are drifting across his irises. “I, uh, asked if she wanted me to be there. She didn’t. But she sent me a text once it was done. Told me that it would be okay… I haven’t heard from her since.”

Bellamy swallows hard, his gaze dropping to her hands for a second. When he whips his head away, clearly ashamed, she brushes her fingers across his knuckles, yet the silent comfort doesn’t appear to work; he keeps staring ahead, his shoulders tense.

 _It has to be the weight of more words,_ she thinks and waits for them. 

They emerge after a minute, “I shouldn’t have been shocked by it.”

“But you were?” Being quiet for so long makes her voice sound strangely unwelcome in his room. Still, it makes him look at her as he nods. 

“I was an idiot, Clarke. I was the one who said that we could rely on her birth control. We didn’t _need_ condoms—well… ” He huffs before falling silent again. To soothe him, she runs her hand along the curve of his spine, feeling him shuddering at the touch. “I couldn’t tell anyone. You know this town. Give it a week and everyone would know, and they’d be saying all kinds of shit about her. No. I couldn’t let that happen, so I just—I didn’t say a word.” 

More than anything, it’s things like this that make Clarke question whether the state of the world has improved _that_ much: People still pretend it’s their business what a woman chooses to do with her body. Because of this, she feels a sudden urge to thank him for keeping the truth to himself, but it’s not her gratitude to express and, in fairness, he just did the bare minimum. 

Bellamy seems to understand that. “I started feeling guilty because she wanted to be rid of me, you know? That’s why we ended things. Then it turns out that I’d knocked her up… I hate that. She must’ve felt trapped.” His jaw clenches. “After a while, I felt guilty for feeling guilty, if that makes sense. My guilt had guilt. I didn’t wanna make it about me. It was _never_ about me.” 

“No, of course not,” Clarke says, interlacing their fingers. 

At last, Bellamy takes a good, solid breath. Then he opens his eyes, exposing the tears that are glistening in them. She pretends not to notice, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

Today, she wants waffles and — to her sheer luck — he has an iron. It’s buttercup yellow, old as fuck by the look of it, but it works. He makes them fresh cups of coffee while she bites at the crisp, sweet edges. Like yesterday, she kicks her feet while perched on the kitchen counter. 

Aside from that, nothing is the same. 

Bellamy is walking on eggshells, cringes at the sound of the fridge door creaking. When he shuts it, she figures that she might as well ask, “Did, um… Did this have anything to do with you not going to college?” 

Glancing over his shoulder, he pours some milk into her coffee, nearly spills it. “Yes.” 

He looks at the clock on the wall. 8:45 AM. In an hour, he has to be at work, which should give him enough time to tell the story. Unless it’s a complicated one. 

Sighing, he pushes his hand through his hair. “I struggled to make sense of it for a while, mainly because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. But I did what I could. One of the first things I did was attend this open forum thing at the community center. It was hosted by Planned Parenthood volunteers. That’s where I met Kane.” 

_Oh._ Slowly, the pieces are falling into place. 

After worrying his lower lip, Bellamy continues, “He was curious as to why I was there because I was so young and it was clear that no one had _forced_ me to go… Somehow, I ended up telling him. Don’t ask me why. I guess I was crumbling a bit at that point.”

Hearing him say that makes her heart clench. When he looks off into the distance, pain flashes in his eyes, and he forces a smile. “He told me how much he _admired_ my sense of responsibility. He had no idea that—I couldn’t bear it.” As he pauses, he eats a bite of his waffle, but it takes him far too long to swallow. “Then he asked me if I’d be interested in volunteering at the youth center.” 

_The youth center?_ Clarke’s head spins. While she knows of its lonely existence on Meadow Road, she’s never known anyone who’s been there. Her mom once said that it’s where parents send their kids off to in the evening if they can’t control them; if they start smoking weed or committing petty crimes. 

Still surprised, she asks, “ _Were_ you interested?” and hates that it comes out sounding judgemental. 

If Bellamy notices the change of tone, he doesn’t seem to care. “Not at first, I admit. But I went once anyway, just to observe, and I saw that the work they do there is _impactful._ Like… It just—it means so much to these kids. I wanted to be a part of that impact.”

That makes her smile. “And then what?”

To her relief, the corners of his mouth curve upwards, too, and it doesn’t look fake this time. “Well, I fell in love with it. Being able to help other people in my community, _that_ was what mattered to me. And I realized that I couldn’t do that if I was thousands of miles away, stuck in a lecture hall. It’s true. I didn’t want to go to college anymore.” 

He scoops the rest of his waffle into the trash, making her frown a bit, but then he says, “My mom—God, she was furious. She was about to kick me out of the house. I understand why she wanted to, but I begged her to just come and watch me work. And she did.” 

Then he goes on to tell her about how, when they drove home afterward, he expected her to hurl his bags out of the front door. Instead, she baked banana bread — _his favorite —_ and apologized. It’s a heartwarming conclusion.

But it’s made even better when he walks to her, takes her hands. “I actually _work_ there now. One of the last things Kane did as the mayor’s advisor was to make sure that I’m paid.” 

“That’s wonderful, Bellamy.” 

Once she’s said those words, he captures her lips in a sweet kiss; it catches her off guard, makes her grab the edge of the counter, but she leans into it nonetheless.

Pulling back, he surprises her again, “I’m working there tonight. After Wendy’s. If you wanna come—”

“ _Yes._ ” 

He beams for so long that he’s late for his shift.

While Bellamy is at work, she’s sprawled on the living room rug, left without a TV or a sketchbook, which are her two preferred options for killing boredom. Even though it would make the older generations clutch their pearls and complain about _millennials_ , Clarke finds her phone on the coffee table. 

She was planning to listen to Dermot Kennedy’s new single on repeat, but her eyes fall on the Instagram icon.

Before she can convince herself that it’s a bad idea, she’s opened the app and typed ‘ _Roma’_ into the search bar. The first suggested account is a Pizza Plaza in Tennessee; the second one is _roma.t.bragg._

Bellamy’s ex-girlfriend. Or, not really, but she’s the closest thing he’s ever had to that. 

Octavia follows her. So does Raven. 

Biting her lower lip, Clarke starts exploring the girl’s grid and dives right into dimly-lit pictures and videos taken at rock concerts; a few memorable shots of her surfing in Hawaii six months ago; proof of her new tongue-piercing and… a simple drawing of a clothing hanger, above which two even simpler words are written: NEVER AGAIN.

History echoes through them.

Based on the date, this was posted around the time that several states — including North Dakota — passed restrictions on abortion. Without thinking, Clarke clicks on the post to read the caption:

_If more people in the world understood the pain of this image,_

_there wouldn’t be a debate. We’ve come so far._

_Don’t screw it up now._

_(Click the link below to donate to Planned Parenthood._

_They need it now more than ever)_

It’s an easy double-tap. Afterward, she finds herself going back to the grid and scrolling down the heaps of wide smiles, the plates of delicious food, the motorcycle trips. Near the bottom, there’s a picture of a Chanel No. 5 bottle — definitely _not_ Watermelon Lemonade — and a single photo of Bellamy. 

He’s part of a group here, which is probably why she didn’t delete it, but the camera is clearly in love with him. And, for a moment, it makes Clarke wonder if Roma was, too. Then she decides that it’s silly. 

The caption on this one reads: 

_Go-Kart and milkshakes with friends. Mario Andretti, we’re comin’ for ya._

Clarke laughs until she notices the date: 20 August 2015. It must’ve been shortly before she ended her relationship with him and went to college. Shortly before… 

Finally, she decides that it’s time to press the Home button. 

* * *

On the way to the local youth center, they eat chicken nuggets and curly fries from Wendy’s. Clarke falls into a small rant about the toxicity of diet culture, aggressively dipping her food into ketchup while he bobs his head to the sound of X Ambassadors and the points she makes. 

Once they’ve found a spot in the parking lot next to the building, Bellamy pauses, kills the engine and the radio. Confused, she lets her hand drop from the door handle and falls back into the passenger seat. “What’s going on?”

He worries his lower lip. Then he looks at her, his eyes gentle. “I’m really sorry. For how I treated you this morning.” 

_Oh._ Somehow, she didn’t expect that, and it catches her full attention. In the last month, she’s learned just how much you can tell about the nature of a guy by the way they apologize for their mistakes. So far, Bellamy’s been quite good at it.

And the pattern continues, as he says, “You were right. I was immature. Yeah, I might’ve been upset but you had no idea, and I—” He swallows, keeps his gaze locked on hers. “—I should’ve been honest with you from the start instead of trying to manipulate you into forgetting about it. I know I can trust you.”

Clarke puts her hand on top of his, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You can.” 

Nodding, he says, “I promise, I’ll try to do better,” and she can tell that he’s sincere. For now, that’s what matters. 

“Don’t worry. We’re alright,” she assures him, offering a genuine smile; to that, he responds with a tender kiss to her cheek.

Though it sparks a tiny flame of want in her chest, she knows that now is not the time.

Bellamy reaches behind his seat to retrieve a duffel bag. Before she can lose to her curiosity and asks him what’s in there, he’s left the car. Adding an extra spring to her step to catch up, Clarke follows him. 

The youth center looks plain from the outside, a tall square building; the paint is slowly chipping off the white walls and the grass on the lawn in front of it is overgrown. Once inside, they step into a wide hallway where they hang their jackets, and Clarke peeks into the room to her left, which looks a cafeteria. 

Bellamy walks into the room on the right: A large hall with high ceilings that are decorated with colorful paper lanterns. Immediately, her eyes are drawn to the graffiti murals and, of course, the impressive boxing rink in the middle of the room. 

Then there are the kids.

Once Bellamy has walked to the rink and unzipped his duffel bag, they swarm around him like moths to a flame, chattering to each other. From the bag, he pulls out a pair of blue boxing gloves and faces the crowd. “Well, whose turn is it?” 

A blonde girl — probably sixteen or younger — nudges a tall boy beside her. “Jacob’s been practicing all week.” 

“No, I haven’t,” Jacob snaps, a flush creeping into his neck. 

Acting oblivious to the boy’s bad lie, Bellamy shrugs, swinging the boxing gloves back and forth. “Okay then. Anyone else?” 

This forces Jacob to swallow his pride; he steps onto the rink anyway, but not without looking at Clarke and asking who she is. She hasn’t done a very good job at blending in; from her place by the corner of the rink, she stands out. Maybe because she seems more attached to Bellamy than the group of teenagers. 

“Oh, this is Clarke. She’s just here with me today,” he explains, pulling off his t-shirt. When he walks over to her corner, she helps him put on the gloves. 

“No other details?” Someone in the crowd presses.

Like a pro, Bellamy pretends not to hear it.

Instead, he runs over the basics with Jacob, making sure he remembers how to stand his ground and deliver a good punch. He does, striking Bellamy’s chest with his right glove, and that’s when it hits Clarke: The galaxy of bruises that she exposed while taking off his shirt in the sunflower field, they’re from _this._ They must be. 

“Guard your face, Jacob,” he says, “Otherwise—” to make his point, he aims for the boy’s nose, though not nearly as fast as he could’ve, so he narrowly escapes the blow by throwing his head to the right. 

Jacob nods in understanding, his brow furrowed in concentration.

And the “fight” continues like this for a while. In the end, there is no winner, no loser, just a teenage boy who is all the wiser and — judging by the way he seems to deflate, losing his puffed-up stature — a lot _calmer._

After Bellamy’s lesson, the crowd separates into smaller groups that head toward different parts of the hall. Clarke’s attention is pulled to a group of girls to her left. A man — or more like _mountain_ — is teaching them how to escape if someone is pulling them by their hair. 

When Bellamy notices, he explains, “Roan teaches self-defense. Makes sure that they have the methods etched into their backbone. If they forget, he’ll practice a hundred times with them until they’ve got the hang of it again.” 

In an instant, Clarke is filled with appreciation. 

Soon, Bellamy’s eyes wander to a couple of orange couches in the far left corner. On one of them, there is a woman with a sharp jawline and intense eyes. “That’s Anya. She’s a licensed therapist, but she throws a good punch, too. She has a separate office in here for when the kids want to talk in private.” 

The young man sitting across from her doesn’t seem to need that, but his expression looks serious. 

When Anya turns, she notices and waves at Bellamy. “Thank goodness, I think this is more up your alley.”

He’s bound to leave Clarke alone by the old pool table, but she assures him that she doesn’t mind. After all, he’s here to help and she’d hate to deter him from that. 

From afar, she watches as Bellamy talks to the boy, who doesn’t much younger than herself. It’s impossible to discern what they’re discussing, but the topic can’t be too grave because they both crack several smiles throughout. The conversation lasts about five minutes and with Bellamy giving the boy a supportive pat on the shoulder. Upon return, he falls back into his spot beside her, saying, “I can’t get into detail, but, yeah. _Consent things._ ”

“Consent?” 

“Not everyone feels comfortable talking to their parents or teachers about that sorta thing, so it’s important that we answer their questions. I typically handle the sex stuff.”

Clarke arches her eyebrows, teasing, “You? A sex guru? I would’ve never guessed.” 

Bellamy gives her a playful shove on the shoulder, opens his mouth to reply, but whatever word that he was gonna say is drowned out by a woman shouting, “EVERYONE, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

Their heads whip around, and their eyes land on the woman in the doorway. As soon as she has the attention of the whole room, her severe expression is ripped apart by a sharp grin. “Follow me if you want snacks,” she deadpans. “Y’all know how food evaporates in this place.” 

Immediately, the kids flock to the café area like a pack of hungry wolves. By some miracle, she and Bellamy claim their snacks and a table.

Glancing at the woman who just gave them plastic cups of fresh fruit and trail mix, Clarke asks, “Does she announce it like that every time?” 

He chuckles, twirling a pretzel between his fingers. “No, she always comes up with something new.” After a moment, he adds, “Her name’s Indra. She’s the manager. The one who makes sure the bills are paid, that the building doesn’t fall apart; that every person has a safe place to sleep when they leave. If they don’t, she lets them stay here overnight.” 

A lump tightens Clarke’s throat as she looks around at the different tables. While most of the teens and kids sitting at them seem to be well-fed and clothed, a few seem too pale and ragged. Her heart twitches. This place — full of misfits, as her mom described it — feels more like a refuge: Here, there is food and chatter, and _warmth._

A young boy with matted hair smiles at his friend; Clarke smiles at Bellamy.

“Some of them come here earlier in the day. There are sandwiches for them if they need it—” he says before his attention is diverted to a girl by the fridge. Probably a middle-schooler. “Hey, Isabella! _One_ root beer. _One._ ” 

“This one’s for Charlotte,” the girl tries, wiggling the second can.

But he doesn’t fall for it. “Nope. She doesn’t like root beer. That’s why she always drinks water. Put it back.”

Realizing that she’s been found out, Isabella does the short walk of shame back to the fridge. Bellamy watches her until she sits back down at her table, then returns to Clarke who asks, “How the hell did you see that? The room is packed.” 

He grins, picks a raisin out of his mix. “I’ve worked here for years. With time, you start to develop hawk-like awareness.” 

_No doubt._

But there is one thing he doesn’t immediately notice.

Once another five minutes pass, the wolf pack has finished eating. Their migration to the other parts of the center is loud enough to distract anyone from the sound of a 50 dollar bill being slapped onto Bellamy’s shoulder. 

“For the crib.” 

At the words, Bellamy twists around to look at the girl behind him: She’s no more than five feet tall, with hair like copper, dusty green eyes lit by determination, and a round bump beneath her pink sweater that reveals she’s several months pregnant. 

“Violet, I told you—”

“And _I_ told you that we’d pay you back. We pay for everything, or people will think that we don’t have what it takes. More than they already do.” 

He nods in apparent understanding before folding the bill and putting it in his pocket. When he has, a smile blooms on Violet’s lips, and her eyes fall on the plastic cups. “Damn, I missed the snacks?” 

Both Clarke and Bellamy scramble to offer her some of theirs, so she takes a little from each. It’s obvious that she favors the cashews. For a minute, she eats blissfully, impervious to her surroundings, then looks up. “You’re new.”

“No, I—” Clarke starts, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. “I’m just here with him.” 

The crinkles that form by Violet’s eyes make her look younger than she seemed moments before. “Huh, _interesting,_ ” she says, throwing a teasing glance at Bellamy before turning her attention back to Clarke. “I really like your shirt.” 

It’s a simple white tee with a floral pocket. Not one of her finest, but that doesn’t matter; casual compliments are rare, and this one fills her to the brim with warmth. “Thank you. That sweater looks amazing on you.” 

It really does. Pink, especially a bright shade like this one, doesn’t typically attract her eye, but it looks stunning against Violet’s strawberry blonde hair and ivory skin. 

While mutual compliments are perhaps the easiest way for girls to support girls, they’re also a fantastic ice breaker. Afterward, Clarke doesn’t feel misplaced or unwelcome. 

“It’s been a while. How is everything?” Bellamy asks. 

The corner of Violet’s mouth quirks upward. “Better. I mean, it’s still tough with our families and everything. My mom changed her mind about us staying with her, so we’re living in his grandparents’ basement right now.” Bellamy’s brow furrows in concern as she goes on, “It’s alright so far, but it’s badly insulated. Once she’s born, we’re gonna have to find somewhere safer—”

“I’m sorry… _she?_ ” His expression loses some of its tension to surprise. “It’s a girl?” 

Now, Violet looks shy for the first time since she came to their table, fidgeting with the charm on her necklace: A rose gold heart, probably a gift from the boyfriend whose name she hasn’t yet mentioned. 

“Yeah, they told us a few days ago. At the last scan.” 

Bellamy doesn’t miss a beat, cracking a radiant grin. “Congrats. That’s so exciting!”

At that reaction, the girl appears taken aback, her smile fading and lips parting. Worried, he presses a hand to her shoulder, but she avoids his eyes. “Sorry, it’s just… You’re the first person who’s said that. I feel like I’m—like I’m not allowed to be excited.” 

_That’s just… heartbreaking._ No matter how hard she tries, Clarke can’t imagine what it must be like for her: Having to deal with the stress of being pregnant while also trying to prove herself to everyone who thinks she’s made a huge mistake. 

“Hey,” Bellamy says softly, pulling her into a hug when tears appear in her eyes. “Of course you are. It’s a wonderful thing.” When he draws back, he offers her a reassuring smile. “I bet Benji’s over the moon, huh?” 

Violet releases a watery chuckle, wipes the corner of her eye with her thumb. “Are you kidding? He tells me at least five new name ideas a day.”

“As long as they’re not weird. Please don’t let him do that.”

She laughs; the sound is warm like Raven’s, probably strikes all of the heartstrings nearby. “Yeah, fuck no.” 

In the following hour, Clarke learns more about Violet as they share the rest of the trail mix: She’ll be a senior once the vacation ends, so she’s seventeen; she started couponing two weeks ago ( _Benji’s idea,_ she tells them) and already has a stash of diapers in the basement; every time the new Justin Bieber single (the one with that _yummy yum_ ) is played on the radio, she wants to hurl ‘ _the fucking thing’_ out of her car; and she thinks Bellamy should bring his guitar around more often. 

Clarke likes this girl very much. “I’m with her. You’re great.” His lips parting, Bellamy stares at her, so she’s compelled to explain, “I heard you while I was in the bath.” 

The skin below Bellamy’s freckles flushes, deepening in color, and Violet watches the two of them as though she’s never witnessed a more fascinating interaction. “What was he singing?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke confesses. 

“Re:stacks. Bon Iver,” he mumbles. 

“Ah, I don’t know that one either,” is Violet’s comment. “But his cover of _What’s Up_ is really cool. You should make him play it for you.” 

Grinning, Clarke replies, “I definitely will. Thanks,” and Bellamy is left gaping at the clever little scheme they just pulled off. 

* * *

In Bellamy’s car, Clarke listens to the voicemail that was left on her phone about an hour ago. Thelonious’ voice is deep and characteristic, evoking memories even though it’s been a while since she talked to him: _Hi Clarke. I just wanted to let you know that Abby — your mom — checked herself in at the clinic today. I know this will be good for her. But she didn’t take much with her, so I’m hoping that you can bring some things — just the essentials, please — tomorrow. Noon would be great._

“What’d he say?” Bellamy wants to know; the calm that has ruled him all evening is still lingering, upholding the smile on his face. 

“My mom is at the clinic. I need to bring her some things. Could you drive me home so I can pack them?” Somehow, she feels strangely void of relief. So she peers out of the window, at a sky that’s speckled with stars. 

She senses his eyes linger on her as he replies, “Sure,” and though she expects him to follow it up with _are you alright?_ he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t need to ask. 

(After all, he rarely does.) 

Without meaning to, he turns her life into a classic romance film, leaving his car to follow her up the driveway. They take each step in tune with the chirping of grasshoppers, and the sweet fragrance of rose bushes hangs in the air. Just before they reach her doorstep, his hand brushes hers as if eager to pull her back towards him. 

Clarke finds herself fumbling with the keys, her skin tingling from his presence behind her. 

_Is it possible to have performance anxiety while opening a door?_

Finally, the lock clicks, and yet she pretends it didn’t; she faces him, so overwhelmed that she’s afraid of bursting at the seams. 

Bellamy is still smiling when he kisses her. It rubs off on her as their lips melt together. Sighing, she wraps her fingers in the soft curls of his hair, and she hopes that every part of her, every movement and breath, is saying: _I’m so proud of you._

When he pulls back, it’s far too soon; he seems to think so, too, leaning his forehead against hers. “Fuck, I really don’t wanna leave you right now.” 

The gravel in his voice makes her shudder. As she does, he holds onto her tighter. 

Clarke doesn’t say anything cheesy like ‘ _Then don’t go’_ even though her lips are tempted to form those exact words. Instead, she breaks the romantic scene with the perfect fluff-killer line, “... I think we should talk.”

Fair. They should.

But she feels bad for saying it in a way that makes him freeze as soon as he’s in her bedroom. 

He hasn’t even taken off his jacket, as if he’s expecting a quick goodbye. His eyes are wide and gentle as he turns around to face her. For a second, his lip is pulled tight, bracing itself for a quiver, but then he lets it loosen.

At this moment, his vulnerability is caused by her. At this moment, he’s saying: _I’ve given you enough power to hurt me. And it’s okay. Do it if you have to._

It’s strange. For months, perhaps even years, she’s been yearning to see this part of him. Now it’s staring her in the face, and she’s afraid of it.

Feeling desperate, she cups his cheeks, brushes her thumb across the Big Dipper by the corner of his mouth. Then she trails her hands down to his broad shoulders, where they peel off his jacket. He releases a ragged breath that ghosts hotly across her forehead; it’s clear that he’s been holding it captive for some time. 

“Will you light that candle over there?” she asks, nodding at the small table next to her window seat. 

Bellamy nods, brushing a hand through his hair. As he fumbles with the matches, she tries to gather herself, but this is all too much. The flame that he ignites is small, though it burns brightly, and he sits down on the seat cushion, unable to take his eyes off it. 

That is until she sits down beside him.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” she tells him.

“Nah, you didn’t,” he says, but his grin is too crooked. “So, what did you wanna talk about?” 

Her thoughts swirl. _What did she wanna talk about?_ While she’s struggling to remember, the rest of the day slowly returns to her, her mind settling on the elephant that has been squeezed in between them since this morning. 

“Have you ever been afraid of it, you know, happening to me?” 

“What?” As soon as he’s said that, it dawns on him. “ _Oh_ … yeah. All the time.” 

Because he’s staring at his hands, Clarke covers them with her own. “Why haven’t you said anything?” 

“I didn’t wanna worry you. And I didn’t feel like explaining the fear. I still carry a lot of shame for it, I keep berating myself. Getting someone pregnant at that age, it’s stuck with me.” He sighs, clearly burdened. “But I’m sorry for taking it out on you.” 

Clarke nods, glad to hear him say it again, but she understands his reaction. In part, that’s why she asks, “Do you want me to go on the pill? Or I could get an IUD if that’s better.” 

At this suggestion, his eyes soften. “No, Clarke. Not for my sake. But we’re not gonna stop using the condoms because I wanna be sure that I’m doing what I can.”

“Of course.” 

For a minute, they just sit there, their thumbs idly caressing, and she starts to think that this talk has ended, but then he tells her, “Being around Violet and Benji, it’s put things into perspective. I’ve always known that Roma made the right choice for both of us, but this has just reaffirmed it. We would’ve _never_ been able to do what they’re doing.” 

“Your situation was pretty different,” Clarke notes, thinking of Violet’s heart necklace. 

Smiling, he replies, “You don’t say.” 

“Do you think they made the right choice? Violet and Benji?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I think. But yeah, I do,” is his immediate answer. 

Still, he must think that it’s necessary to add, “It’s not a walk on roses. Their families don’t understand, and I’m sure they have their rough patches just like everyone else. I’ve seen them fight, I’ve heard them yell, but they mostly do it _for_ each other. Because they wanna do this. Because they _want_ a life together. That’s the key difference.” 

A hypothetical question crams itself into her mind, expands until it fills the whole universe in there. It could scare him off, and yet she feels that it’s important to ask, if not for the sake of right now, then for the sake of tomorrow, or another day entirely. 

She looks at him. “Bellamy, what would we do?” 

To her surprise, it doesn’t appear to frighten him. His expression softens. “If you got pregnant?”

Nodding, she ignores how strange the thought is. It _could_ happen, that’s the point. It could happen to them, and if it ever does, it would be nice to know what to do, but… 

“I don’t know,” Bellamy breathes, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “But I’m sure we’d figure it out. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

That’s the most comforting answer that he could’ve given. Not just in case of the hypothetical, but in the case of everything. Everything that life might throw at them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: 
> 
> \- past abortion (+ references to the unsafe abortions that have occurred prior to legalization)  
> \- teenage pregnancy


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone 💕
> 
> i was so happy to see that so many of you enjoyed reading the scenes at the youth center, and i'm pleased to say that there are more of them in this chapter. i highly recommend clicking on the links (open them in a new tab) and listening to the songs as you come across them. it really perfects the experience.
> 
> minor cw: body image discussion
> 
> stay safe, loves!

> _home we are_
> 
> _don’t wash me blue_
> 
> _i’ll endanger this fire_
> 
> _a poisoned fume_
> 
> _—_ **_bare_ **

  
  


A lot can happen in a couple of days.

On Wednesday, an email reveals why her letter from The Wallace Institute of Fine Arts hasn’t arrived. It turns out, the president, Dante, died of a sudden heart attack two weeks ago, and his son, who was supposed to succeed him, is under investigation for taxation fraud. Wonderful. Brilliant. This was only her dream.

In the evening, Wells and Raven come over to help her drown the sorrows and self-pity in cherry coke. They laugh until their stomachs hurt. She feels better. 

On Thursday, Clarke learns that her mom was fired from the hospital and wasn’t planning on telling her. Why should she? It’s not like keeping secrets is a gross violation of trust, especially when you’ve already been given a second chance. Trying to hide her fury, Clarke signs some paperwork at the clinic with Thelonious. An hour later, she applies for a job at the bowling alley. 

On Friday, she has her first shift, comes home smelling of cardboard-flavored popcorn, her ears ringing with the screams of misbehaved kids. 

After a refreshing shower, she lies on her bed, picturing Bellamy’s warm hands all over her body; they ignite flames beneath her skin, find something in the nightstand drawer that has only been held by her.

Her vibrator in his hands. _God, the visual._

The things that he could do to her.

With that image etched into her brain, she’s burning so wildly that she’s afraid to call him. Though it makes no sense, she’s worried that he’ll be put off by the wildfire. Now that he’s seen her soft smile in the early morning and watched her by candlelight, maybe it’s too intense. 

Clarke rushes to the bathroom, splashing water on her face and neck. It’s useless, so she tries to drown the merciless heat in a glass of pink lemonade from the fridge. The ice cubes melt at the second they touch her lips. Picking the last one out of the glass, she presses it against her inner thigh.

_Fuck._

The cold shock makes her eyelids flutter; when it reaches her brain, she remembers something he said two weeks ago: _You can tell me what you want. Always._

The last drops of the cube are clinging to her fingertips when Clarke finally calls him. Met by his voicemail, she feels weird about being too specific, so she says, “I want you to come over,” knowing that the desire is dripping off her tongue. 

In the next hour, her mind is ruled by him. No matter where she is: She can’t wash her hands without thinking of him fingering her on the sink; can’t sit on the couch without hearing herself begging him to bend her over it. Every time, she pushes the vivid images aside, convinced that she’s just horny because it’s been a while. 

(a suggestion for all dictionaries: 

**while, noun:** three days)

They had sex on _Tuesday,_ and she’s been fine without him since. Why did the craving suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks? It feels as if no amount of milk and honey could quell her thirst. No amount of sex either; she could do it for hours without ever getting enough. Slowly, she begins to question if she’s losing it. 

( _Hey, that’s misogynistic,_ she reminds herself. _Wanting sex doesn’t make women “crazy.”_ )

The knock sends a thrill down her spine. 

When she opens the door, Bellamy runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I was—”

“Playing basketball?” she guesses, the words a little strained as her eyes settle on the sheen of sweat on his bare chest; his ribcage is still rising and falling rapidly, hinting at exertion. 

After shutting the door, he bends over to untie his shoes, making her stare at his ass instead; it’s perfect, but she can’t remember if she’s ever touched it, which almost distracts her from his response. “Yeah, I’m not tired, though.”

With a wink, he tells her that he knows exactly why she left that voicemail. 

It doesn’t hurt her pride because it’s not _about_ pride anymore. It’s about how she’s missed him, his body and his words; his presence in the raging hurricane of the last few days. To her relief, some of that longing has already subsided since he stepped inside.

But it’s swept further away by the surge of passion as he kisses her. 

He tastes vaguely of oranges, sweet and sour all at once. 

For the sake of showing off, Bellamy carries her upstairs. She doesn’t mind it, because he rips off her t-shirt in the process, presses his mouth to her breast. Then he throws her on the bed. As she lands on the crisp duvet, the dull blow reverberates through her body, and it makes her think: _Maybe he missed me, too._

Bellamy stares at her, hungry, before grabbing her thighs and pulling her toward him. When he kneels at the end of the bed, nosing at her lower abdomen, she knows what he wants; it’s just not what she wants. 

He raises his eyes to hers, a silent question that quickly transforms once he’s read her expression. “Not today, huh?” To her relief, he doesn’t sound disappointed. There’s a relaxed edge to his voice, painting the words in gentle amusement. 

“No, I… I had something else in mind.” 

His eyebrows quirk up when she pats the comforter next to her. Smiling, he follows the cue. Once he’s sitting beside her, he pushes his fingertip under her bra strap and lets it travel the short distance to her collarbone. “I love this color on you.” 

_Bet he does._ It’s cherry red, the sexiest shade she owns. 

Clarke presses her forehead against his, teasing the kiss for a second before she leans in. Their lips collide, parting to taste; his hand moves to her neck, and the warmth that it leaves in its wake sends chills down her spine. Feeling greedy, she climbs into his lap, reclaiming her throne and whispering, “I want your hands. All over me.” 

But she is made to wonder if this position impairs his basic comprehension skills: While he unclasps her bra effortlessly, his mouth wanders the valley between her breasts, forcing her to push at his shoulders. 

“What?” He frowns at her until she grabs his wrist, lifting his hand.

Impatient, she places it on her left breast. “Your _hands._ You don’t touch me enough.”

At her appraisal, his expression softens. Then he squeezes the globe, dragging his thumb across her nipple; it sends a sharp thrill through her chest, makes her breath hitch around a moan. 

The sound unleashes something within him: He palms both of her breasts, the swift change causing her heart to surge, before sliding his hands across her shoulder blades; when they meet in the middle, they run down her spine, leave her shuddering. 

Bellamy groans, wrapping his arms around her middle, and a gasp tumbles off her lips. His fingers get tangled in her hair as they massage her scalp. It’s unexpected yet soothing, chasing the remaining thoughts off her mind. Once that’s done, his hands drop again, this time to her ribcage; it glows, golden, at his touch. Her waist sways with the warmth, making her grind against him. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathes, brushing his lips across her throbbing pulse. 

“Take off my shorts,” she whispers back, clinging to his neck.

Without hesitation, he frees her from the uncomfortable friction of the denim against her skin, palming her ass shamelessly. 

_Oh, he gets it._

When she presses her lips to his clavicle, the tip of her tongue darts out to taste the salt that clings to his skin. His Adam’s apple bobs, so she kisses that, too. 

Looking over his shoulder, her gaze falls on the nightstand. “Bellamy?”

“Hmm?”

“Check the drawer behind you.” 

He probably expects to find a condom, but she keeps those in her dresser. Huffing in surprise, Bellamy grabs the vibrator. The hot pink shade looks less startling against his brown skin, somehow, and he holds it with more comfort than she does, twirling it in his palm. “Huh. Four settings. Which one is your favorite?” 

“As if I would _tell_ you.”

A flame sparks in his eyes, making heat pool between her legs. Worrying her lips, she shifts in his lap and feels his cock twitch against her. Still, he doesn’t rush. His dark gaze drops to her panties: they’re as cherry red as the bra but sheer, exposing her ivory skin and a bit of hair. 

As he cups her thigh, he turns on the vibrator and presses it to the lace by her left hip. He switches to the next setting, moves it down to her inner thigh, testing and teasing at the same time. “There’s no way I’m taking these off you yet.”

“Don’t be mean.” 

“Mean? _Me?_ I’m not the one wearing lingerie,” Bellamy shoots back, dragging the edge of the panties down an inch with his thumb.

Clarke pouts, which proves to be unjustified. At first, he follows the advice that he gave her over the phone, using it on her skin to let the soft vibrations reach her hips, ribs, breasts, and neck. It leaves her body feeling tender. Then he slips the toy beneath the band of the panties, pressing it against her clit.

She jolts a little, but he anchors her to his lap.

He switches between the different settings, but it’s more effortless than when she does it. In some way, the vibrator feels like a simple extension of his hand. 

“ _Oh._ ” When she tugs at his hair, his free arm curls around her back, and he twists the vibrator, encouraging her to rock against it. Pretending it’s his fingers, she feels herself grow wetter. Her panties are so thin that she must be soaking his shorts, too. Her face flushes, but he doesn’t appear to care, curling his hand around her hip to help her move. 

“ _Bellamy,_ ” his name is reduced to a needy whine as she nears the edge. 

“It’s all good, Babe,” he mutters against her neck. “You can let go.” 

Still, she doesn’t, clutching at his broad shoulders, hanging on for dear life. Her lower belly tightens, warmth travels through her, and she is _so close_ that tears form behind her eyelids, but what makes her unravel is his fingertip, trailing down her spine. She comes hard; the rush leaves her thighs quivering.

Bellamy immediately removes the vibrator, replaces it with his hand. Cupping her mound, he gives her something warm to rock against as she winds down. As the stunning effect of the orgasm wears off, she realizes that her arousal is dripping into his palm, and her scent clings to air around them.

But he won’t let her apologize for it. Before her lips can form a single word, he’s removed her panties and fallen back onto the comforter.

“Come up here,” he says, patting his sternum. “Don’t be shy.”

Though the request puzzles her, she scoots off his lap. When she’s within his reach, he grabs her thighs and pulls her closer until her mound is brushing his dimpled chin.

_Oh._

Heat explodes in her cheeks again. “Um, Bellamy? Do you really want—?”

“Yeah,” he replies, not missing a beat. The smile on his face is relaxed. “I’ll go slow, I promise. And you won’t have to move.” 

While that sounds tempting to her dazed body, her chest tightens. The thought of straddling Bellamy’s face, her weight balancing on it, makes her want to shrink. Instead of giving in to the worry, she swallows hard and conjures up some courage; it slowly fills her chest, and Bellamy takes her hand as if he can feel it happen. His fingers caress her knuckles. 

He doesn’t have to tell her; she knows that they don’t have to do it, but this is about challenging herself.

And she wants to do that. 

Making a move forward is daunting. Distracted by how awkward she feels, Clarke tries not to think of herself as a mountain when she lowers herself onto his face. _Shit._

A loud moan falls off his lips as he grabs her thighs to keep her steady. When he licks into her, she realizes why that’s necessary; the jolt of pleasure compels her to move, but she can’t grind too hard. He has to breathe. 

It’s overwhelming that she just has to sit there and take it; the way his greed and gentleness are blending with the soft swipes of his tongue against her. Knowing him, he won’t stop until he’s had every last drop, until there are deep, star-filled galaxies behind her eyelids. He sucks on her clit, trying to form a nebula, and she whimpers, feeling sensitive. To stay grounded, she buries her fingers in his hair. 

“Good girl,” Bellamy mumbles, curling his hand around her hip. “You take it so well.”

Her thighs quiver at the praise. If only he did it more… “Tell me again.” 

Though her eyes are closed, she knows that she’s made him smirk; she can _hear_ it in the drawl, “Good girl.” He palms her ass, finally driving the last of her insecurity away. But at this point, it’s too late. Dropping a chaste kiss on her mound, he looks at her, no longer hungry. 

She lifts herself off his face, revealing his glistening jaw.

Perched on his chest again, Clarke feels his erection brushing her ass through his shorts, and she has to bite back the urge to touch it. “What about...?”

“That depends. Can you handle more?” 

“Come on,” she responds, grinning at him. “Who do you think I am?” 

In truth, she hasn’t ever felt this sensitive before, but she trusts him to respect that. If he started fucking her relentlessly, it’d be too much, and he knows it. 

“Okay. Get on your stomach.” Before she’s even processed the request, he’s asking, “Uh, do you have any condoms? Mine are—”

“Dresser. Bottom drawer.”

Her first experience buying condoms was when she’d started dating Finn, but that turned out to be a waste of money. After having sex with Bellamy, she realized that she had to go back to the store to get another size. When she put the box on the counter, the cashier looked at her, a mix of disbelief and pity as if to say, ‘ _Oh Honey, your man has lied to you.’_

Nope. She _is_ that lucky. 

He wiggles the foil wrapper, making a smile bloom on her lips. “On your stomach, Babe.”

Her heart flutters as she follows the order, but it _leaps_ when he grabs the pillow and places it under her hips; though it’s new, it feels comfortable, and she breathes out, letting herself relax as he tears the wrapper open. Shifting on his knees, he presses a warm hand to her spine, trails it up to her neck, and places a chaste kiss right above her ass. 

_That_ dries out her throat. “Um, what… What are you going to do?”

Bellamy nuzzles her shoulder. “I’m wanna push into you from back here. Is that okay?”

Her mind swirls, and the confusion makes her body tense. He must feel it because he starts drawing soft circles on her spine with his fingers. “Oh... I think we have a little misunderstanding. Clarke, I’m not going anywhere I haven’t been. I would never do that without talking to you first.”

Hearing him say that, his voice so sweet and reassuring, brings tears to her eyes as she exhales in relief. Idly, he plays with the wisps of hair at the back of her neck and brushes his lips along her shoulder. It shuns the nervousness from her body. 

Although this position is still new, it makes her feel more vulnerable than usual, knowing that he won’t go _there_ leaves her at ease, calm enough to say, “It’s okay. I trust you.” 

The pillow under her hips works as a soft cushion when he pushes in slowly, taking his time to watch how she reacts to it. At first, she’s not sure about it — it’s just so different — but then he’s buried deep inside her, nudging a tender spot.

She moans, burying her face in the sheets to muffle the sound when he pulls back only to strike the same place again. “None of that,” his voice is dark, laced in pleasure. “I wanna hear the sounds you make when I fuck you.”

In her mind, _fucking_ has always been akin to what they did in the sunflower field: the fast, relentless thrusts fueled by hunger, skin scraping against the uneven ground, biting, and sucking in a rush. But as she lies there, she realizes that it can also be slow and tantalizing.

Maybe it’s even hotter like this. 

“You feel it, Babe?” The slow drag of his cock inside her makes her eyes water. “You feel all of me like this, don’t you?” 

He seems so much bigger like this, and he knows it, just as he knew that it would make her tremble. It’s the sweetest form of torture, leaving her breathless, _craving,_ but she’s floating somewhere above the edge, unable to hit the ground. His hand on her spine keeps her back from arching, and she understands that she won’t come until he thinks it’s the right time. 

If it ever is. 

“Bellamy, please,” she hears herself begging. “Please, I—” 

Pausing, Bellamy draws an invisible line between her shoulder blades; the featherlight touch makes her shiver. “What?” 

Her cheeks flush with new heat. “I wanna come.”

“You want to, or do you need to?” There’s an annoying smugness to his voice, but his thumb brushing her clit makes up for it.

“I _need_ to,” she finally admits, and he circles the sensitive nub a few times more until the heat tightens her lower abdomen, swirls in her chest. 

Mentally, the second orgasm isn’t comparable to the first; it doesn’t make her levitate among stars, but it’s still overwhelming. Even though she’s earth-bound, she feels her walls clench around Bellamy’s cock, and when he lets go, his loud moan rings in her ears, making wetness pool between her thighs. The intimacy of it strikes her like lightning from a clear sky.

Suddenly, she has to bite back tears. 

Bellamy stays nestled inside her for a minute, kissing a trail down her spine. When he pulls out, the absence is brutal, making a whimper fly off her lips. Even though he gets rid of the condom in record time, it’s not fast enough, so by the time he lies down beside her and brings her closer, a rogue tear is rolling down her cheek. 

He wipes it away with his thumb, presses his lips to her forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just—I feel…” She trails off, searching for the right word to describe the turmoil, but the only one she comes up with is, “... exposed.” 

Because she doesn’t think that he’ll understand what that means, she’s surprised when he says, “That sometimes happens, especially after doing something new. Or unexpected. It can be a bit messy.” 

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he offers her a reassuring smile. Then his eyes soften, emotion painting his irises in a way that she’s only seen once before. And she knows what he’s thinking about: He’s had sex with his best friend; that’s bound to stir shit up, but he doesn’t regret it. As if he’s read her thoughts, he tells her why, “It’s important that we let ourselves feel how we feel.” 

Brushing his fingertip across her temple, he adds, “So, how’d you feel about this?” 

“The position on my stomach—it was amazing. I wanna do that again, but…” 

“But?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t know if I wanna sit on your face again,” she blurts, refusing to let herself overthink the words. “I mean, it was nice, but I felt self-conscious the entire time, about my weight and I—” before she can finish the sentence, she’s caught up by the tight lump in her throat; it makes her choke up.

Body image is a common struggle, so she knows it’s damaging to be ashamed of it, but she is since it tends to present itself at the most inconvenient times. 

Bellamy pecks the corner of her mouth, willing her to continue, “Most days I feel great; it’s not an issue, but sometimes it pops up, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like it’s bigger than me. I know it isn’t, it’s just—“ 

“Frightening,” he finishes, causing her to blink.

Since he’s not an actual mind-reader, this must mean... “You—?” 

His answering hum is soothing, reassuring. Gazing at her, he cups her cheek in his palm. “Yes, Clarke. I get insecure and self-conscious sometimes. I _teared up_ when you kissed my thighs, remember?” 

Somehow, she didn’t link his emotion that night to insecurity. It must be because of bias: thinking his body is perfect, breathtakingly beautiful, and he might have the same idea about her body. 

Interlacing their fingers, he confirms it, “And I _know_ that it doesn’t matter that I think you’re gorgeous, that I daydream about body all the time. Your relationship with it will always be different, and I can’t magically change how you view it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t show my feelings anyway.” 

Her heart leaps, pushing her forward until their lips collide.

From then, it’s the most natural thing in the world: climbing on top of him, wondering what the hell happened to the oceans between them. As she kisses her way down his sternum, she thinks that perhaps they dried out in the last few weeks, leaving holes to be filled with shared secrets, tears, and smiles. 

He’s back. She has him again. 

Bellamy sighs, his eyelids fluttering as she kisses the smattering of dark hair below his navel. When she moves even lower, brushing her lips against the base of his cock, he meets her gaze, heat coils in her lower belly, and… his phone rings.

“ _Why_?” he groans, causing a bright laugh to sputter out of her. 

“Leave it,” she tries when he looks at the screen, but he can’t, much to her dismay. It’s Indra. 

The woman’s voice is clear and raised enough that Clarke can hear her asking, “Are you in the middle of something?” 

She nearly laughs again, watching Bellamy rub his forehead in frustration before he lies, “No, nothing important.” 

They don’t have enough snacks at the youth center, so she’s asking Bellamy to buy something at the grocery store before coming to work. His budget for feeding 40 kids is 25 dollars. It sounds like a challenge. And Clarke loves those. 

* * *

The Jordans own Ark’s Mini Mart, but you wouldn’t know; their son acts as if he runs the place, but he’s good at what he does. Bubbly and helpful, he darts between the shelves, making sure that the products are placed neatly. Still, everyone who knows _him_ knows that this inspection is a way for him to catch all of the hottest gossip. 

(Clarke should’ve thought of this before they entered.)

“What’s happening today? It must be a big deal since you need _more_ snacks,” she says as they’re browsing the shelves for the cheapest brand of salted chips. 

Bellamy finds some for 2.99, dumps three bags into the basket. “Nah, it’s just music night. We have a few more people coming, but otherwise,” he shrugs, “not much different.” 

While he isn’t looking, Clarke pulls a bag of M&M’s off a shelf.

As they continue their search for some healthier options, he tells her that the monthly music night was initiated by Roan three years ago when the stereo broke. He invited some friends over to play a few songs on their guitars, using the boxing rink as a stage, and it enchanted some of the kids; they wanted to learn, so Bellamy (naturally) made it his mission to practice with them. 

That’s how he learned, too.

“Let me tell you, Clarke. Those who didn’t get bored of it, they’re _so good_ now.” The pride gleams in his eyes as they start to mix a bag of apples, bananas, and tangerines. “You’ll be blown away. Uh, if you’ll be there, that is.” 

“Can I?” As much as she wants to experience this music night, the last thing she wants to do is intrude on a professional environment. That’s why she’s battled her curiosity and stayed away from the center, even though it’s a public building. “I mean, what do your co-workers think of me just _hanging out_ with you at work? They’re not opposed to it?” 

“No, not at all. As long as the safe space for the kids isn’t compromised, we’re allowed to bring whoever we want... And Violet really likes you.” 

The last part makes her smile, her chest swelling with fondness even though she barely knows the girl. This must be how Bellamy feels about every kid at the center. 

“Is she coming?”

“I’d bet on it. Benji always sings on music night.” 

“Woah. Is he good?” Clarke asks as they walk to the register.

“He’s _awesome._ ” They pull the items out of the basket, chattering about the male trio that Benji performs with on music night and, for a minute, she’s too distracted by the conversation to notice that the cashier — someone familiar — is looking at her oddly. It’s not until he says, “It’ll be 17.40,” that Jasper Jordan earns her attention. 

He’s wearing the same pair of goggles as when they were Freshmen, but his hair has undergone a thorough trim since then, so he’s lost the innocent puppy look. Right now, he’s eyeing her in a way that makes her feel uneasy, but she can’t quite pinpoint why. 

When Bellamy has paid for the snacks, Jasper forgets a crucial part of _grocery store etiquette:_ He doesn’t tell them to have a nice day. 

  
  


* * *

When they arrive with the snacks, the sun is setting upon the hills, Roan and Anya are loading fold-out chairs off a red pick-up truck in the parking lot, bickering as they do. Indra is leaning against the open door with a clipboard in her hand.

“Where do you want these?” Bellamy asks, gesturing to the grocery bags. 

“Kitchen,” she says. “Charlotte’s waiting in there for you. She’s… upset.” 

As he nods, his jaw clenches. Then he walks inside, and Clarke falls into step behind him. She vaguely remembers someone mentioning this name the last time that she was here, but there’s no face attached to it in her memory. Once they’ve stepped inside the café area, her eyes fall on the only child in the room: A young girl with braided dirty-blonde hair. 

She’s sitting alone at a table, though not for much longer. As soon as they’ve placed the grocery bags on the counter, Bellamy goes to her. Clarke refrains from following him and begins unpacking instead. But it’s impossible not to hear everything.

“Hey, you,” he says sweetly before his voice is drenched in worry. “What happened to your wrist?” 

Clarke’s heart jolts, forcing her to look up. She catches a glimpse of Charlotte, tugging at her sleeve to cover the cast. “I broke it. Today, at school. The nurse looked at it and said I had to go to the hospital, but Mom was too busy working. So they called Indra.” 

When her stomach drops, Clarke tries to distract herself by searching for a cutting board. The girl’s voice is strained, probably due to pain, but it honestly hurts more that she didn’t have a parent who could be there to give her comfort when she needed it. Instead, she’s seeking it from Bellamy.

And he delivers straight away, “Well, your timing couldn’t be better. I’m playing tonight. If you’re lucky, I’ll autograph your cast.” Charlotte laughs at his dumb joke, so he takes it a step further, “You might be able to sell it on eBay for a buck or two.” 

As her heart swells, Clarke pours some M&M’s into a plastic cup and brings it to their table. She puts it down in front of Charlotte, then humors Bellamy, “Don’t be so humble. I’ll pay way more than that.”

In the following hour, more kids stream into the center. The fold-out chairs have are forming a half-circle by the boxing ring, and the glow of the paper lanterns provide a cozy kind of lighting. Once a small crowd has gathered there, Roan sits at the edge and plays a rough yet powerful version of _[Hey Jude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQER0A0ej0M) _to test the sound system. 

The kids clearly think he’s the coolest person ever. Clarke doesn’t blame them; he looks like a rockstar with his long hair, tattoo sleeves, and ripped jeans. When he’s asked to play another one, he says, “I would, but I’m afraid that I’m about to be thrown off the stage.” Grinning, he looks at the doorway where a bunch of people has just appeared. 

Violet is heading the pack, wearing a black leather jacket and smile for the occasion. The boy next to her is holding her hand. Benji.

Clarke doesn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t a blonde boy wearing a stud earring and leopard-printed t-shirt. If Roan fits the blueprint of a rockstar, Benji does, too. Minus the tats. 

“Sorry, Man,” Benji says, amused. As he takes the “stage” with his two friends, Violet claims a seat next to Bellamy and Clarke. 

“Get ready,” she tells them, radiant. “The baby kicked yesterday. He couldn’t feel it but, _trust me_ he’s been bouncing off the walls ever since.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt you one bit,” is Bellamy’s comment. 

And, sure thing, Benji’s energy levels are reflected in the first song that the group plays: _[Ways to Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGvHnDeS12o) _by Grouplove. Its fast, pumped-up beat sends vibrations through her body; Benji’s high pitch is perfect for it, and they’re about halfway through the first chorus before a group of teenagers says, ‘fuck it’ to their chairs, pushing them aside to dance. Or, maybe ‘jump up and down’ would be a more accurate description.

The initiators are all boys who hoot in support as Benji finishes the chorus. When he jokingly points at them, they all fake swoon. Clarke laughs so hard that she almost chokes. 

“He’s mine, Eric!” Violet yells to one of the boys, grinning. “Don’t forget!”

In the end, Benji and his friends only play three songs, but they make everyone dance. Clarke even catches a glimpse of Indra twirling Anya around while she’s dancing to the fridge with Violet in tow. Bellamy asked if they could bring some water back for Charlotte. 

Clarke pours the glass, and Violet gives in to curiosity. “Are you guys dating?” 

“No. Um, not really.” 

“Huh,” Violet says, taking a can of root beer from the fridge.

Before she can pose further questions, they’re interrupted by Benji’s voice, amplified by the microphone, “And, back by popular demand: Our very own _Bellamy Blake_!”

Well, they can’t miss this. 

They make it to the other room just as he’s sitting down at the edge of the ring, holding a guitar. “Thanks for the introduction, Benji. I am not worthy.” He flashes a crooked grin, grabbing the neck. “I don’t wanna take too much time out of tonight, so I’ll only play two songs. Y’all know this one,” he says as he begins to strum the strings.

The melody is a dead giveaway. _[What’s Up. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NXnxTNIWkc) _

And the kids cheer. It makes his smile brighter. 

After giving her the water, Clarke takes the seat beside Charlotte. Violet takes the next one. 

The young girl is swaying her head from side-to-side, attuned to the rhythm and Bellamy’s deep, dark pitch, which is perfect for the song. Still, he makes it his own, slowing the tempo. As he sings those famous _“Hey-Yeah-Yeahs,”_ he looks at the kids. They all start to sing along with him. 

The blend of voices in the room softens the atmosphere… and her heart. 

Once the song comes to an end, Bellamy smiles at Charlotte. “What do you want me to play next?” 

She looks a bit struck by the _honor_ of being chosen and has to think for a moment. “Um, a song we haven’t heard before.” 

“Ah, that one’s hard,” he teases, giving the strings a light stroke as he ponders. Then, in a beat, he catches Clarke’s eye, and his brow furrows. “Alright, I think I’m gonna take it down a notch.”

And he does, building a soothing melody that fills the room, sticking to the walls. When he begins to [sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_m89rVfUn5s), he stares off to the side, at nothing. _“Stealing glances at the pavement. The weight, it comes too soon. Supposed to keep on rolling, but the race is nothing new.”_

He bends his head a little, worrying his lips, “ _As the train, it starts to go, and it takes our bodies slow, and I know you wanted to for some time now…”_ Now, his eyes flutter closed, the corners of them twitching with emotion. “ _All this time, you’re gone. In your wake, I stumble on, but the smoke is nothing that I haven’t seen.”_

Still, it’s the following words that rain down on her, “ _So I walk into the sun; I thought you’d be there. But you could fool anyone,”_ causing a montage of memories to flash through her mind — 4th of July fireworks, sparking in the sky; water splashing against her dress; being swept through the salty air; laughter, love, and lips — it drowns out his voice. 

Though only for a second. _“Will I see you soon, or did we move on?”_

Now, it feels as if everyone’s staring at her.

No one is. 

_“The crowd begins to break up. They're calling their goodbyes. My head's above the water, but I'm drowning in your eyes.”_ When he repeats the chorus in real-time, he twirls her around in her mind, filling her lungs with giggles and crisp wind. _“Well, the race is long; you can't relax, and I don't belong, so I'm headed back. It's getting hard; you feel the fear… I'm seeing red, wish you were here.”_

Clarke isn’t surprised by the tears that begin to cloud her eyes, unwelcome as they may be. At least there’s no risk of Bellamy noticing; he’s staring off into the distance, but he’s not aloof. If he were, it’d be easier for her to be. Instead, she watches as he swallows hard between the words; how his fingers tremble, trying not to mess up the chords.

 _“Got a head full of dust. Will I see you soon, or did we move on?”_ He licks his lips, blinks rapidly while averting his gaze to the ceiling. _“Will I see you soon… or did we move on?”_

 _No. We didn’t;_ it rings through Clarke’s ears like a choir. _That’s why we’re here._

Bellamy wraps up the song, leaves the stage to roaring applause, but she can’t bring her hands together. Hell, she can’t even look at him. 

Not right now. 

The two girls that perform afterward have beautiful voices, like sirens, and that is about all her mind registers. Her thoughts are a blur, the deafening howl of a microphone left to close to a speaker. When the teens hold hands and bow, she jumps at the chance, heading for the exit.

Her name is muttered as she walks away. She doesn’t look back. 

Outside, the cool breeze brushes her cheek, and she takes a steadying breath, trying to seep into the calm around her, but she’s too ragged, too chaotic. Turning her gaze skyward, she intends to look for stars. They aren’t here tonight. 

“Clarke?” his voice rises behind her like a current. She wills herself to face him, wondering what the hell she’s supposed to say.

Then a car door slams, piercing the quiet. They both jolt.

“I fucking knew it,” Octavia sneers. “Sneaking around, lying. It really gets you off, doesn’t it?” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all aren't too mad at the cliffhanger jsjssdjsk sorry


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: underage drinking

> _my goddess,  
> _ _hear my darkest fear_   
>  _i speak too late_   
>  _it's for evermore that i wait_
> 
> _— **white queen (as it began)**_

**2 Years Ago - 4th of July**

Someone should tell Octavia that blowing her brother isn’t illegal. It just won’t be Clarke. Sprawled across the purple bedding, she watches her friend try on a third crop top; this one has a bedazzled skull and some violets on it. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I mean, you live with him. You’ve told me about the girls before.”

“So what? Doesn’t mean I know exactly what the girls _do_.”

Clarke refrains from rolling her eyes at this. Instead, she pushes herself off the bed, slips into the space beside Octavia to check her reflection.

She looks like she just got off the beach, even though there are no real beaches in North Dakota; her skin is sunkissed from spending hours on the deck, the golden waves of her hair look bouncier than usual, and she’s wearing the white, flowy dress that she bought in Venice last summer. For once, she thinks she looks pretty. The words that come out of her mouth, however, are not much so: “I’m curious. What makes a blowjob different?” 

“Ugh. Clarke, you don’t have a brother. You don’t understand.” 

And there it is again: The dismissal, the _patronization_ that has fallen off Octavia’s tongue ever since she started hanging out with the seniors from her track team. It’s not a good excuse, and yet Clarke has given her a pass each time. Maybe she should push back a little more. “But Bree is _nice_. You know she is. Why would she invite us to the party if—”

“Uh, maybe because she spent two weeks blowing up Bellamy’s phone after he stopped seeing her? She’s just using me to get to him. And it seems to have worked already.”

“But this was _months_ ago, don’t you think she’s moved on?” 

Octavia glares. “I don’t care. I’m not going.” 

It’s only been about fifteen minutes since she let it slip that Bree is a bragger. While Clarke doesn’t have a problem with that, Octavia _hates_ vanity more than any of the other deadly sins. So, it was surprising that she didn’t seem fazed by someone boasting about sucking Bellamy off in a dressing room at the public pool.

Now, it’s clear that Octavia is, in fact, _very_ fazed. It hasn’t taken her long to decide to go to Monty and Jasper’s party instead, although she hasn’t wanted to sit at their lunch table for the past month. 

There’s just one issue with this sudden flip-flop. “Will they serve that alcohol again?” 

“Yeah, probably. Why?” Octavia says, but she doesn’t sound worried or even uncomfortable. 

Clarke still remembers the taste; gasoline poured down her throat, burning her lungs; the sharp scent of dudes that had drunk too much of it, hands grabbing at her as she tried to cram her out of the door; her heart pounding in her ears. _Moonshine_ doesn’t deserve such a beautiful name. 

“Because then I don’t wanna be there.”

“Come on, Clarke. It’s not like _we’re_ going to drink it.” 

_Stand your ground,_ she reminds herself, tipping up her chin. “You said that the last time, too. And you still did it.”

“I had _one_ sip! It’s you who went overboard.” 

As angry tears spring forward in her eyes, stinging, Clarke turns her back. “I _know._ That’s why I’m not going again. You wanna be there? Fine. I just—I’ll just go to Bree’s.”

Octavia stares at her, her jaw clenched. “Sure. Do what you want.” 

The truth is: She doesn’t want to go to Bree’s house either, but that has nothing to do with vanity or the whole Bellamy thing. Apart from Gaia, she doesn’t know anyone who’s going to be there, which makes her feel almost as uneasy as the homemade booze did. 

Unsure of where to spend her evening, Clarke goes home and spends about an hour in front of the TV, but the constant talk of _independence_ (you know, the thing that was built on the genocide of Native Americans and cultural theft) starts to piss her off, so she decides to scroll through her Instagram feed instead. Curious, she stops on the fourth picture, posted an hour ago by @xnatemillerx.

He and his friends — Bellamy, John Murphy, Atom Waters — are sitting on the lawn, smiling widely as the grill throws sparks into the air. The caption reads: _An intellectual (Yours Truly) once said: Don’t waste your money on fireworks, kids. Donate to the NARF._

Nathan Miller’s dad is a former police chief turned political activist. In the last few years, he’s organized protests and marches for Black Lives Matter, taught his son everything that there is to know about progressive activism. Now, the younger Miller is studying Political Science at UPenn. 

The longer Clarke looks at the picture, the more she longs to be there. Despite being several years younger, she knows Miller quite well because he and Bellamy are joined at the hip most days. Atom is the walking definition of a _heartthrob,_ which explains why Octavia had a crush on him when they were Freshmen. Murphy, on the other hand, is a douche and unapologetic about it. 

Whatever. She’ll find a way to deal with him. 

Gatecrashing at the Miller residence turns out to be easier than anticipated; the gate itself is wide open. Strolling up the pebbled driveway, she passes the impressive front yard, but there are no guys out there anymore. She can’t just claim a spot in the circle, which forces her to knock on the door. 

But Clarke isn’t welcomed by the host. 

In a not-so-classic gatecrashing fashion, she blushes at the sight of Bellamy. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Clarke? I thought you and O were going to Bree’s.” 

“We were, but she, um, she went somewhere else without me.” Realizing that the words paint Octavia in a bad light, her stomach twitches, but she can’t take them back either... because they’re true. 

Bellamy looks at her for another moment, then shouts over his shoulder, “Hey, Miller!” 

The reply comes right away; a theatrical, “ _Yes, Darling?_ ” 

“Mind if we set another plate?” 

To Clarke’s amazement, they don’t mind. At least three of them don’t. When she follows Bellamy into the living room, Murphy is scowling, but it could be a permanent facial feature. Ignoring him, she sits down on the empty recliner, closer to Atom, who’s leaning against the arm of the white leather couch. 

“O really just left you?” Bellamy asks, frowning as he places a cold can of Fanta in front of her. 

Watching it, Murphy grins. “She doesn’t want a beer?” 

Immediately, he’s confronted by Miller’s hot glare. “Shut up, man. That’s not funny.” 

Clarke wants to seep into the floorboards, but before she can make an attempt Bellamy presses his hand to her shoulder, a silent reminder of the question he just asked. She grabs her soda off the coffee table and opens it, then says, “Yeah, I mean, she wanted to go to a different party, and I didn’t, so…”

His brow furrows. “What party?” 

“Kara’s having one,” she lies, knowing that Octavia would kill her if she told the truth. “They have a pool.” 

“Bree’s family has a pool, too, though. I don’t see the difference?” Atom comments, making a fair point. 

Eager to end this conversation, Clarke decides to be blunt. “I guess the difference is that Kara hasn’t blown her brother.” 

It makes all but one guy crack up, and she pretends to be nonchalant, taking a sip of the orange fizzy drink while Bellamy’s stare burns into her. _Okay,_ maybe she went out of line, but he’ll recover. He’s a guy, after all; his sexual conquests make him powerful in the eyes of other men, in the eyes of _society._ Her mentioning this incident might annoy him, but it won’t damage him. 

Sighing, Bellamy wanders into the kitchen. “I want some food. Anybody else?” 

That proves her point. 

Dinner is burgers, coleslaw, and sweet potato fries that they have out on the terrace. As they eat, Atom tells her that she should bring something the next time she wants to gatecrash, like snacks, because it will make people more inclined to accept her. 

“With Bell here, we’re basically forced to,” Murphy says, smirking. 

Bellamy kicks him under the table, then picks the last fry off his plate. “You’re such an asshole. Why are we friends again?” Despite the question, there’s a bright grin on his face; he doesn’t need to be reminded, but Clarke would like to know, so she looks at him, awaiting the story. 

It’s a short yet surprisingly exciting tale about two boys in middle school; they had nothing but second-hand clothes in common, but they still teamed up on the basketball court to piss off a couple of rich kids. “They thought they owned the place… until we handed them their asses.” 

Since then, they’ve stuck by each other, somehow. Nevermind the differences. 

That’s real friendship. 

In the same way that she and Octavia were _real_ friends when they were younger: Real friends who traded the candy that they bought for pocket money; who laughed until the walls shook; who always picked each other first. 

At age five, Octavia sent her a postcard, not because she’d been anywhere new, but because it had a dragonfly on it, and Clarke loved dragonflies. At sixteen, Octavia didn’t bring her home after the party. Bellamy did. Through the years, he’s always been there, in the middle. Like a bridge between two islands. But what’s the purpose of that if the ocean keeps on expanding?

“Clarke, are you okay?” Miller asks once they’re sitting in the living room again. 

Pulled back to reality, she pretends to be interested in the episode of _The Office_ playing on the TV, but all she hears is blurred voices. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Your hands are shaking.” 

When she looks at them, she sees that he’s right. She swallows, curling them into fists. “Um, I just think I need some air.” 

Before any of them can question it, she’s left her seat and opened the glass door onto the terrace, but she doesn’t stop there; she takes off her sandals, leaves them at the last step before burying her toes in the soft grass. Though Clarke has always known that David Miller’s property was big, she’s never been here to see it. Not until now. 

The lawn seems endless. After a minute of walking, of sensing the steady ground beneath her feet, she comes by a stream. A _stream_ ; if it didn’t run through someone’s garden, no one would assume that it was man-made, that’s how breathtaking it is: The soothing sound of running water reaches her ears, and she watches as the soft colors of the sunset reflect on the surface. 

Glancing over her shoulder, Clarke can still see the house, so the guys can probably see her, too. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and dares to step into the water. Hopefully, no one will care; she just wants to feel the slow current against her ankles. 

It’s _incredible;_ cooling and calm. She turns toward the sun to admire its last rays. When the sky has darkened, the fireworks will start bursting, filling the atmosphere with glitter. As a kid, she loved everything that sparkled; that’s one of the few things she hasn’t outgrown. 

Next to her, the water splashes. Clarke twists her head in time to see Bellamy stepping into the stream behind her. 

“Oh, hey.” 

“You wanna come back inside?” 

She thinks about it for a moment. “No, not really.” 

“You like it out here, do you?” he asks, and she can hear the smile in his voice right as his arms wrap around her middle.

Then he sweeps her up, spins her around in the light summer air. A squeal leaves her lips, a blissful sound that tears through the loneliness; the sweet scent of magnolias encompasses her while he becomes a blur of bronze skin and the tiny stars that are lodged in his eyes. Still, the moment passes way too soon. 

He puts her down but keeps his hands on her waist. “What’s wrong, Princess?”

Worrying her lips, Clarke looks at him, unsure of how to tell him. But, if there’s anyone in the universe that she wants to talk to about it, it’s him. So, she pushes down the tears that are already clogging her throat and admits, “It’s Octavia, I… I think we’re growing apart.” 

In the end, her struggle is useless; the tears win as they always do, clouding her eyes. 

“ _Hey_ , I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he murmurs, pressing his hands to her shoulders. “You always get through it.” 

True, they do, but things change, sadly. Just like people do. 

“Not this time.” Clarke shakes her head, biting back the denial because she _has_ to admit this to herself. “It just feels different. Ever since we were at that party, it—I just don’t—and then last week, she got pissed at me when I told her that it’s not smart to go on a strict diet. I mean, she runs fucking _cross-country._ ” 

His brow furrows. “I’ll talk to her about that.” 

“Like you talked to her about the party? Bellamy, she still hasn’t apologized.” 

At those words, his dark eyes flash, his jaw clenching. After a moment, he softens, releasing a sigh to the darkening sky. “I don’t know what’s happening with her, but you don’t have to put up with it. You really don’t.”

She smiles. “So, should I scream at her or something?” 

He grins. “Whatever works.” 

“But what if I lose her?” Everything within her body is quivering, her heart most of all; it makes her voice break under the weight of the realization. 

When his hand brushes hers, his eyes grow sad, though they remain tender; fireworks crackle in the distance. “Even if you do, you’ll be okay. I’m sure.” 

For some reason, the finality in his voice breeds longing; it spreads through her chest like weeds, slowly smothering her. Right now, she can still sense his warm skin next to hers, just barely touching, while her thoughts drift to his bedroom door. If her friendship with Octavia breaks, she might never open it again; she might never get to sketch the wide curve of his smile. 

The tears are rising to her throat again. Her voice small, she asks, “What about you and… ?” She doesn’t dare to add the ‘ _I,’_ let alone cut the whole thing down for an ‘ _us.’_

His jaw slackening, Bellamy gazes at her. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Of its own accord, her heart skips a beat, and she remains stunned until he steps closer, the water swirling around his feet. As the narrowing distance between them tightens her chest, she moves to take a step back, but he grabs her wrist and reaffirms, “I’ll always be here for you.” 

It only takes a second. Those words leave his mouth, and Clarke is swimming in his eyes, but she’s headed for the shore. His fingers squeeze her wrist, encouraging the lean to where they meet in the middle. At this moment, this wild, vivid moment, he’s not a bridge; he’s a lifeboat. His lips touch hers, warm and sweet and careful, parting just a little. Naturally, she mirrors him, trying not to mind her heart fluttering.

Then, this moment passes, too. Suddenly, Bellamy tenses, turning rigid against her before he tears his mouth off hers. “Wait—no,” he stammers. “ _No._ ” 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she says frantically, noticing the pure _terror_ in his eyes. He squeezes them shut. 

“It’s not your fault. I… leaned in, too.” After saying that, he presses his lips to a thin line, and she can practically see the guilt eating away at him. Not only because she’s Octavia’s friend but because she’s _sixteen._

Clarke wants to calm him; she just can’t think of any words. At all. 

“Uh, we should go back inside,” he says, though it sounds as if he’s speaking to the wind more than her. 

In dead silence, they walk back to the house. Miller greets them at the glass door, sliding it open. Then he tells Clarke that the towels are in the bathroom upstairs, and she — taking that as her cue to leave — walks into the hallway. 

But she pauses on the third step when Bellamy speaks. “Did... did you see anything?”

Miller begins to answer, but Murphy talks over him, “Not if you didn’t want us to, no.” 

(And that was the last time Clarke ever questioned why someone would want to be friends with him.)

In spite of everything, Bellamy still drives her home at the end of the evening. Too afraid to look at him, Clarke stares at her hands and tunes out to the sound of fireworks popping in the distance. Her body feels as if it’s been folded on the inside, and her heart is sticking to her lungs, making it hard to breathe. 

The tingle on her lips has gone like dew from the grass. She could’ve imagined it, but she thinks that, if she had, there would be words in the car right now, perhaps even laughter. Instead, there is only silence, suffocating. It takes them ages to reach her house. 

By the time he pulls up to the curb, she feels several years older. 

When she unfastens her seatbelt, the _click_ gets his tongue running, “Wait, I... “ He worries his bottom lip. “... Did it—”

A sudden knock on the car window makes them jolt, but it’s just her dad, smiling behind the glass. Swallowing hard, Bellamy rolls it down and is met by the unconditional warmth that is Jake Griffin’s voice, “What a sweet ride. Where’s your sister, Bellamy?” With a spark of curiosity in his eyes, he peers into the backseat. 

“Uh, she’s at home still. Fell asleep on the couch, I think.” 

“Oh,” her dad says, having no reason to doubt it. “Well, why don’t you join us for a cup of coffee? It’s the least I can offer you for driving her home.”

For a second, Clarke can sense the sheer panic rolling off Bellamy, his shoulders tensing and hands gripping the steering wheel. “I’d… I’d love to, Sir, but I don’t wanna trouble you—”

Her dad laughs kindly. “You don’t wanna trouble me, Son? Then _please_ call me Jake. And come on inside.”

After that, he’s compelled to leave the car along with her. As they walk to the front door, her dad explains that her mom was called in to assist during emergency surgery at the hospital. _Car wreck on the interstate. Terrible._

Then he guesses how Bellamy likes his coffee, based on instinct, and notes, “Hey, maybe you could try and teach me how to quit this single sugar cube.” Bellamy forces a smile when her dad places his cup next to Clarke’s on the dining table. 

“Yeah, um, maybe,” he replies, sounding out of breath like every syllable is a struggle. 

_Wonderwall_ is playing in the background; Bellamy sways to the melody, but even that soft movement seems tense as if he’s thinking too hard about it. It makes Clarke feel antsy, so she sips her coffee and listens to the low drumming of her dad’s fingers against the tabletop. If he didn’t know better, perhaps he’d ask Bellamy about college, but that question is wasted on him. He spends his days working at Emerson’s car shop, convincing people to buy used vehicles. 

That’s how he acquired the _sweet ride._ But he also worked on it every day for a year. Sometimes, when she was walking by the bungalow, Clarke saw Bree leaning against the El Camino to watch him, shirtless and sweaty in the sun. 

“I was wondering,” her dad starts, making Bellamy pause mid-sip. “Why’d you drive here? You could’ve just walked.”

 _Oh no._ His eyes widening, Bellamy clears his throat and glances at Clarke. “Uh, it… We were—”

“At Miller’s,” Clarke finishes the response to prevent a lie that she knows will be terrible. 

Her dad’s eyebrows arch. “But Octavia wasn’t?”

Suddenly, Clarke understands how the crooks on TV feel when their suaveness starts to run out during an interrogation. Except, she was never suave, and Bellamy’s even less so right now; his lip is turning white where his teeth are dug into it. “No, Sir—Jake. My sister, she decided to go somewhere else. Clarke asked if she could come with me to Miller’s house.” 

He’s leaving out her gatecrashing. _How thoughtful._ Hoping that it will reassure him, Clarke offers him a tiny smile. 

Though her dad appears taken aback by the information, he recovers quickly. “Oh, I see. Okay. So, what’d you guys do?” 

Once again, they feed him part of the truth: The burgers, the fries, The Office _,_ and he seems satisfied, oblivious to the thick, dark mist that clings to the air between them. 

“No fireworks?”

_Not the real thing._

Clarke’s stomach flutters when she catches Bellamy’s eye, but he quickly looks away and shakes his head in response to her dad. His thumb tracing the edge of his mug, he swallows hard again, and the background song changes to _Love of My Life._ His fingers slow dance to the quiet flair of Freddie’s vocals. 

For the first time since walking through the door, he looks Jake in the eye. “What an icon.”

He beams. “You like Queen?”

“Who doesn’t? I’m pretty sure not liking them is a criminal offence.”

“If it’s not, it definitely should be.” After saying that, his bright ocean eyes travel from Bellamy to Clarke, darting between them. Though the smile on his lips is warm, it seems to make the nervousness grip Bellamy again: He takes the last sip of his coffee, staring at the table.

Jake notices this but mistakes it for something else. “I know you have a lot of things to worry about, Bellamy. Whether you’re a good man isn’t one of them. Your mom raised you well.” When Bellamy’s jaw clenches, he adds, “Thanks for always looking after our daughter. It means a lot to us.” 

It doesn’t surprise Clarke that these words push him out of the door. He mutters a half-assed excuse about wanting to be home before his mom returns. Then he says thank you for the coffee and heads into the hallway where she catches up to him. At that moment, her life feels like a movie, her heart pounding as his hand freezes on the doorknob. 

Mercury sings of the last dance, of being under pressure, and Bellamy whispers, “See you around, Clarke.” 

And yes, that’s all he did. For the two years that followed: _He saw her around._

* * *

**Present Day**

Without blinking, Bellamy steps in front of Clarke, curling his fingers around her wrist. Not a bridge, but a wall between two worlds. Octavia stops dead in her tracks; her expression faltering.“I’m not going to _hurt_ her,” she says, indignant. 

“Then back off,” he says, his voice calm yet forceful. “And tell me why the hell you followed us here.” 

Octavia takes a long step back, putting more distance between them. “Jasper texted me.”

 _Of course._ Since Sophomore year, Jasper has had noticeable feelings for Octavia. Sometimes, he’d do wild things — like “borrowing” John Mbege's motorcycle in broad daylight — just to show off his courage in front of her. It used to annoy the crap out of Monty because the effort was clearly a waste. Although his affection might have run out, he’s still unfailingly loyal to her, it seems. And he snitched on Clarke because of it. That hurts. 

“So what? O, you can’t just show up here. You know I’m working.” 

His sister turns up her chin, glances at Clarke. “Mixing business with pleasure, huh, Bell?”

At that comment, Clarke finds her voice, pulls her wrist out of Bellamy’s grip. “Oh shut up, Octavia. You don’t know anything about this.” 

Licking her lips, her former friend fakes a smile, the bitter, poisonous kind. “I don’t? Well, fuck, I must’ve dreamt it all then: You _ruining_ our friendship because you’re in love with him, and then having the nerve to screw him behind my back for weeks.” Tears fill her eyes as her lips start to tremble. 

Bellamy freezes, same as Clarke’s vocal cords. 

For a while, they just stand there, staring at the storm in front of them; the brown hair flying in front of her electric, hard expression. 

Bracing herself, Clarke steps closer, pours strength into her voice. “Yeah, you’ve got it wrong. You were a shitty friend, _that’s_ why I didn’t wanna talk to you after my dad died. It had nothing to do with Bellamy. Wanna know why we aren’t friends anymore? Take a look in the fucking mirror.” 

Thunder breaks in Octavia’s eyes, but before she can open her mouth, Bellamy moves in between them and barks, “ _Listen._ I’m at work! Clarke, leave it alone. And you, O, _go home_. We’ll see you there later. I’m not doing this here.”

Though his sister stares at them for another moment, she turns on her heel and walks back to Aurora’s old Ford Puma. Once she’s driven out of the parking lot, Clarke realizes how badly she’s trembling; the anger in her body is _alive_ and burning after being cold for years. For two years, she’s thought that it had no control over her anymore, that she’d moved on. But silence doesn’t resolve anything; it simply smothers you until you want to explode.

Bellamy’s right; they need to talk about all of this later. Right now, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Then he turns to her. “Are you alright?”

Pulling herself together, Clarke nods. He wraps his arm around her shoulders as they walk inside, but they don’t face the music; the hall has been conquered by easy chatter, by groups of kids eating their snacks on the floor. Violet, Benji, and Charlotte are sitting on the edge of the ring.

When they come closer, Clarke notices that Charlotte’s hair is braided even messier than it was before, which is puzzling until she explains, “Benji did this one. Bellamy, will you please teach him how to do it properly?”

Bellamy laughs, and hearing the warm sound fills Clarke’s chest with relief. 

“With hair, practice makes perfect. It took me a couple of years to get the hang of it. Now I can do a French one, too.” 

“That’s like a superpower, man,” Benji says, which has Violet squeezing his hand and assuring him that he has enough time to learn. After all, their baby isn’t going to be born looking like Rapunzel. 

Still, they end up in a “braiding train,” with Charlotte at the front, then Violet, Clarke, and Bellamy at the back, all forming plaids with their hands while Benji takes internal notes. When the center closes, Clarke has a pretty French braid in her hair, woven by Bellamy. Thinking about it makes her feel giddy as they walk to his car, and it’s not until the engine coughs that her stomach clenches. 

“Bellamy, how are we going to talk about this? What are we gonna say?” 

He glances at her in the rearview mirror. “You mean, what’s our excuse?” 

It sounds as absurd as it is. Why on Earth do they need an excuse to have sex? It’s one of the few things that humans can do without any good reason at all, and yet Clarke feels that she _has_ a decent one; she isn’t doing it just for the sake of doing it, and not simply for the orgasms either, but she can’t pinpoint what makes it mean more. More than whatever Octavia thinks it means. 

He’s driving slower than usual, paying homage to the asphalt that has carried them many times before. “We don’t need to explain ourselves.” 

Clarke wants to believe him, and yet she feels as if she’s headed for the witness stand when Bellamy pulls into the driveway by his mom’s house. He opens the front door without knocking, unapologetic, but stops dead-center in the hallway as Aurora steps out of the living room. “Octavia said you’d be here.” 

Bellamy looks around. “Then where is she?”

“I sent her to Kara’s house.”

He makes a frustrated gesture with his hand. “ _Why?_ She’s the one who’s angry, she—”

But his mom crosses her arms over her chest, says, “No, I’m angry, too.” Afterward, she walks into the living room, and they know better than to stay put, so they follow her and sit down on the blue two-person couch. As soon as they’ve hit the cushions, Aurora looks at them, blazing. “It’s not every day that I find out my son has lied straight to my face.”

“I would’ve been honest,” Bellamy worries his lips. “But you were already judging me. Even before you knew the truth.”

“Because when you come home smelling of a girl’s perfume, I don’t expect it to belong to your little sister’s friend.” The blow is effortless, and it shows when his jaw slackens.

In the meantime, Clarke wonders why they’re talking about her as if she isn’t there. Finding her voice, she speaks up, “Octavia and I haven’t been friends for nearly two years.”

“So that makes it okay?”

This unfair question pisses Clarke off. Although her blood is starting to boil, she keeps her cool. “I’m sorry, what’s _not_ okay about it? We’re adults. We have consensual sex. The rest is honestly none of your business.” 

Aurora shoots back right away, “Octavia is _hurt_. She feels betrayed, and that makes it my business.”

After his mom has said that, Bellamy places his hand on Clarke’s thigh, probably to keep her from biting back, but the touch doesn’t subdue her. “No, it doesn’t! If she felt that betrayed, maybe she should’ve been a part of this conversation, but she’s not. When she gets home, you tell her about how betrayed _I_ felt when she let me get black-out drunk at a party and then ordered her big brother to pick me up!”

Her jaw slackening, Aurora finally looks stunned, speechless. 

“It’s true, Mom,” Bellamy mumbles. “And what’s the point of this talk anyway? You want me to apologize for lying to you? Fine, I’m sorry for that, but—I’m not sorry for _this_.” Then, he squeezes Clarke’s knee. “Don’t make me be.” 

His mom stares at him, asks, “Do you love her? If not, I think you should consider if this is worth breaking your sister’s heart.” She shoots out of her chair, walks to the door. “Now, get the hell out of my house.” 

“Mom—”

“ _Get out._ ”

His jaw tics as he stands. For a moment, his dark eyes are piercing, glaring at her. It’s a blatant display of power, of ' _oh, so this is how it’s gonna be?'_ Watching the fire reign in his eyes, Clarke wonders if this is the first time he’s challenged her. “Good luck paying your own damn bills.” 

_Oh fuck._

“Bellamy, come on. Let's go,” Clarke mutters, tugging on his wrist. To her relief, he doesn’t resist, and they leave the house together. 

Not slamming the door takes his last ounce of self-control; it’s clear when he bites out a curse and slams his fist against the hood of his Chevy. Before he can do it again, she grabs his arm, yanking it back. “Hey! Relax. It’s gonna be okay.”

She lets her hand trail down his spine, releasing a ragged breath from the cage of his throat. 

“My whole life,” he stammers. “Everything I’ve done was for them.”

Resting her cheek against his back, she whispers, “I know,” even though she can’t imagine just how much he’s sacrificed for his family, the countless hours of dragging himself through work when he could’ve spent time with friends, doing things he loved. But he didn’t. 

Bellamy takes another breath, then opens the door. 

“You aren’t too angry to drive?” she asks, feeling her airways tighten when his jaw clenches. 

Though he insists that he’s okay, they haven’t put more than two miles of road behind them before she realizes that he’s _not:_ His eyes are glazed over, made of distant clouds. As they drive past the fields on the outskirts of town, the _Tournesols_ wink to the dying sun. There’s no one out here, and yet Clarke is gripping the seat, terrified of his inattentive mind. 

It only took a moment of that to end her dad’s life. 

Clutching her seatbelt, she senses tears tighten her throat, panic shooting through her veins. Tires screech, but it’s just in her head. It’s all in her head, that’s the problem; she can’t get out of there. 

“ _Please._..” she croaks, her heart pounding. “Please.”

Bellamy, who’d been trapped in his mind, too, snaps out of it and hits the brakes. He glances at her. “Okay, get out.” 

Her thoughts stop whirling for a second. “... What?” 

“Just trust me, Clarke. Get out.” 

Because she can hear the impatience rising in his voice, she grabs the door handle, doesn’t miss that he opens the glove compartment as she steps outside. She tries to swallow some crisp air, but it gets stuck in her throat. So, instead, she tries to focus on the divine colors that are bleeding into the horizon. Only, her attention is dragged away by his hand; it curls around her wrist, spins her around, and bends her face-down over the car hood. 

A thrill runs up her spine as her cheek meets the cold metal. 

She hears his belt clang, but when she raises herself on her elbows to look, he places his hand on her neck and presses her down. “Stay there.” Curling his fingers around her waist, Bellamy unzips her shorts, exposing her skin to the chilly breeze. “You okay like this?”

A car could pass by them at any moment, and while that would be mortifying she cares more about what he’s trying to do. His mission is obvious: He wants to clear her mind, make her forget the panic that’s lingering in her body. 

“Yes,” she tells him, filling her lungs with clean air. 

Moments later, he growls and pushes into her from behind. His thrusts are hard, making her breath hitch and her body rub against the car; it must be one hell of a sight for him, yet he remains in control. Bending his knees, he fucks her faster, which has a moan tumbling off her lips. The sound blends with the gentle _whoosh_ of the wind, ripping through the quiet atmosphere. 

Sweat gathers on her back, making the t-shirt stick to her spine. But the adrenaline, the rush of it, chases the tension away. Every time his hips strike hers, she feels dauntless. “ _Oh, God._ ” 

“Yeah, let me hear you, Clarke. Fuck, you’re so sexy.” 

“ _Bellamy._ ”

He moans when his name falls off his lips. Then he grabs her wrists, folds them against her back. Being restrained more only fuels the want in her lower belly. Heat coils between her legs at each push of his cock inside her. And the world swells as the bliss behind her eyelids. 

Her cheeks burn when her walls clench around him. His blunt fingernails dig into her skin, and he spews a string of curses to the night.

“ _No,_ ” she pants, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Don’t come.”

“You’re not in control here, Baby.”

Taking pity on her, Bellamy kisses the back of her ear and rubs her spine as he lets himself go. His broken moan vibrates through her body. He pulls out before she’s fully recovered, leaves her trembling. For a moment, her mind is hazy; she doesn’t feel herself slip off the hood, but his hand wrapping around her shoulder to steady her has warmth shooting through her chest.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, nuzzling her temple.

She smiles. “You know I am.” 

* * *

When they enter his house, the echo of their footsteps run through the floorboards, making the living room sound hollow. Bellamy hooks his phone up to the speaker and starts his playlist, crushing the silence in a second. Listening to the eclectic mix of songs, they chop vegetables for a stir-fry. Though she tries not to pay attention to it, she senses the tension rolling off him, and she wonders if he feels bad for what happened with his mom and Octavia.

Clarke opens her mouth to ask him about it just as an enchanting melody rises in the room… it’s familiar. Still, it takes her a moment to identify it. _Seven Seas of Rhye,_ of course. 

Her dad appears in her mind, smiling and proudly waving a whisk around like a microphone. 

This fraction of a memory is all that it takes to stun her; the knife in her hand stops moving, and she just _listens,_ the emotions welling up in her chest. 

The weight of Bellamy’s eyes settles on her. “Hey, are you alright?” 

For some reason, the smile appears on her lips as naturally as the clouds drift across the sky. “Yeah, it’s… Queen reminds me of my dad. He played their music all the time.”

“Oh. I remember.” 

There’s a delicate edge to those words that reveals his reminiscing; it brings her right back to the kitchen table, to his fingers dancing on the mug, to the approval and praise that Bellamy didn’t think he deserved. After hearing it, he went rigid, icy — and he remained that way. The question is: _Why did he thaw?_

Clarke worries her bottom lip as Freddie’s vocals fade out. “Can I ask you something?” 

As he pours the vegetables onto the pan, they sizzle, and he grins before joking, “No, permission denied.” 

But the humor doesn’t make her deflate. Instead, her heart surges; the words stick to the roof of her mouth. Finally, she manages, “Uh, when you were singing that song today — you know, the last one — I… thought about what happened two years ago.” Bellamy stops stirring for a moment, indicating that he knows what she’s referring to. “And how guilty you felt. I understand that, but now it’s all changed? Why?”

His gaze fixates on the pan. “I think _we_ _both_ changed a lot in the last two years. We’re in a different place now. But the catalyst...“ Trailing off, he glances at her. “When you approached me, I didn’t refuse because I knew that Finn hadn’t cared about you. And, well, _I_ did, so.”

The sheer vulnerability of the words renders her speechless, but it also reminds her of a question that fell off her lips by the sunflowers: _Why don’t you tell people that you care?_ Now, he has. Several times, even. If that doesn’t speak to just how much they have grown together, nothing does. 

She smiles at him until the next question pushes itself off her lips, “You don’t think we’re being selfish?” 

Since Aurora implied that, the possibility of it being true has been stirring inside her. His jaw clenches, though only for a second. Then he reaches into the cupboard to find two plates, places them on the counter. Finally, he admits, “Maybe we are,” more nonchalantly than she imagined. 

“You don’t mind?” 

“Not really… Why should I?” 

Touching his shoulder, she wordlessly tells him to look at her. When he does, she tells him, “Because you _hate_ selfishness. You always have. It’s why you sided with me after the party. You thought Octavia was being selfish, right?” 

Bellamy clocks her. “Are you calling me a hypocrite?” he asks, but there’s a surprising lack of heat in his voice. 

Still, Clarke worries her lower lip. “No, I’m—I’m just wondering why it suddenly doesn’t matter to you.”

As he averts his eyes, her heart ripples; she envisages the lie before it’s spoken. “I don’t know.” 

If this had happened on any other day, she might’ve ignored it, moved on because it’s so much easier to pretend that she still doesn’t understand his complexities. But she knows him now; everything from the crevices of his body to the softness of his passions… and _dreams._

Her mouth is all dried out, but she speaks anyway. “I think you do.” One of the things she’s learned is that no one knows Bellamy better than he knows himself. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, and she half-expects a bark to burst out of him. Instead, his broad shoulders become tense as he stares at her. To her awe, he doesn’t look agitated. His defenses shatter, pierced by the bullet of her eyes. His earthy eyes are wide and vivid, shimmering; her heart is beating out of tune, frantic. 

Unbothered by the silence between them, the vegetables keep sizzling in the pan; the clock ticks on the wall. With each passing second, the pressure grows, but she doesn’t know what to say. Bellamy steps away from the counter, turns to face her. 

In a way, she’s discovered the truth before she’s ready to hear it.

“Please don’t say it,” Clarke whispers. And the ground trembles, attuned to her lips. 

The sorrow fills her chest much faster than his gaze; it hits her like a burst of thunder, searing through the emptiness. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Bellamy mutters, and it sounds genuine. “I could, but I don’t think it would make a difference.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nothing to say except that i finally figured out how to write this chapter! 💕 the emotion in this fic is just a bit complex and i don't want to do it a disservice by forcing it to be neat and dandy for my own benefit. i hope that makes sense.
> 
> so, here's another glimpse into the chaos of it all! 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me, i know it's been a long time coming.

> _slowly, our paint chips away  
>  but we will find the strength  
> and the nerve it takes  
> to repaint  
>   
> — **north** _

They try to go on like it’s nothing; like the implication isn’t that he loves her. Maybe it’s because, in a sense, their relationship has always been a string of implications, a series of cloudy confessions, far too obscure to leave room for dwelling. The stir-fry is tasteless, the silence loud. 

When Clarke finally rises from the couch, Bellamy has been tracing the rough seam of his jeans for several minutes, his jaw clenched. _It could be a thousand things, plaguing him,_ and it’s hard because, no matter what, she can’t help but think it’s her fault. 

“I’m gonna take a bath,” she says, the words slightly choked. 

For a second, he glances up at her. “Alright.” Quickly, he turns his gaze to his hands again, probably waiting for her to leave the space to him and his thoughts. 

Except, though she’s decided to let this go, she’s holding onto him, gripping the doorframe on her way out. Determined, she hangs back just to ask, “You coming or not?”

He blinks, his lips parting a bit, but he does follow her. 

After her dad passed in the accident, warm water has been a refuge; it soaks her thoughts, slowing them down, and maybe — _just maybe_ —it can get their tongues running. They’re craving a talk as one craves sugar, intensely despite the desire to fight it. The freedom and pure exhilaration that Clarke felt during their roadside fuck has begun to wear off, the strain settling in her bones again.

But then the tub is filled, the scent of the sea rising in the room; her body _longs_ for some relief. 

When she moves to unbutton her shorts, however, Bellamy hooks his index finger in her belt hoop, spins her around. Her hands land on his firm chest and, for an inexplicable reason, heat floods her cheeks. His eyes are tender, resting on hers, as his lips graze the skin behind her ear. “Let me do that.”

At those words, she nearly melts in his arms. _God, what is happening?_

Her heart is fluttering. It shouldn’t. It _mustn’t._ Less than an hour ago, it nearly burst from fear of hearing three little words, but now it’s pulling her right back to him, sending mixed signals. As frustrating as it is for her, it has to be worse for him, but he hides it well. If he feels any resentment toward her, he swallows it whole… and takes off her clothes. 

“I hope you’re okay,” he mutters out of the blue, his voice strained. 

Naked and flushed in front of him, Clarke just nods. Once she has, he exhales sharply; it pierces the air between them, forcing her to turn away. Chasing the calm, she steps into the water, slips her body below the surface, and lets her eyes fall shut. 

The effect on her mind is immediate; her thoughts blur, soften. She hears his zipper being dragged down roughly, his belt dropping to the tile, and when the door opens, his footsteps shuffling out there’s no irrational worry about him leaving. For the time being, it’s all good. Everything’s good. 

And he does come back a minute later. The gentle strum of the guitar strings is what finally pulls her out of the daze. She finds him as he’s placing the instrument next to the tub in favor of joining her. 

“No offense,” she says, a smile playing on her lips. “Isn’t this an odd place to hold a concert?” 

He grins, sinking into the water at the opposite end. “I wouldn’t call it a concert, Princess. There is no one but us in here.” For some reason, the last part of that sentence makes her heart jolt, then he goes on, “And this is nothing special, by the way. I usually play in the bathtub.” 

“Uh-huh. Yeah, right. That totally makes sense.” 

At her skepticism, his eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “You don’t believe me?” Without warning, he grabs her shins to bring her closer; it pulls a surprised squeal out of her, but in the middle, his forehead finds hers. “Guess I’ll have to prove it.” 

“Bellamy—” 

“Shush,” he interrupts, waving a hand at her dismissively. In a swift motion, he picks the guitar up by the neck, rests the end of it on the edge to keep it just above the water. Without sparing her a glance, he starts strumming, creating an idle, sweet melody. “The sound in here is _amazing._ ” 

Really, it is. Maybe it’s the shape of the room, or the marble, that makes the music sound unearthly, _divine,_ but the echo is gorgeous. 

Bellamy stops playing abruptly, looks up at her. “Any requests?” 

To hide a smile, Clarke bites the inside of her cheek. _He’s serious._ “Whatever you like.”

Chuckling, he runs a hand through his hair, then sweeps it through the water, splashing her a bit in teasing. “You just love making it easy for me, don’t you?” 

“My favorite thing in the world,” she slings back naturally, and she has to wonder where the tension between them has wound up because it’s certainly _not_ here anymore. 

Drops of water from her hands cling to his freckles; he doesn’t bother drying them off, just puts on a smile that transforms into something more serious within seconds. “Okay,” he breathes out before speaking to an invisible crowd, “This one goes out to Jake Griffin.” 

Clarke’s heart siezes. 

_“Love of my life… Don’t leave me,”_ he sings, every word swept deep and eanest, a furrow between his eyebrows. “ _You’ve stolen my love, you now desert me. Love of my life, can’t you see?_ ” For a second, he catches her eye, making her breath hitch. “ _Bring it back, bring it back. Don’t take it away from me because you don’t know… what it means to me.”_

Suddenly, Clarke can picture her dad smiling. He would always do that while singing along to _Queen’s Greatest Hits_ in the kitchen. It feels nice to remember him like that: happy in the most organic, alive way. And while few things in this life are certain, she knows that she’ll never lose this image. No matter what, this is who her dad was, and that’s how he’ll stay in her heart forever. 

Blinking away a few tears, Clarke bends down to kiss his left knee. Though he worries his lips, it doesn’t keep him from singing, “ _You will remember, when this is blown over. Everything’s all by the way. When I grow older, I will be there at your side to remind you…. How I still love you._ ”

“I still love you,” Clarke murmurs, too lost in his voice to think about anything else; it speaks to her heart, too clearly; it comes out strong, a force to be reckoned with despite its inherent delicacy. This is who _he_ is, and this is how he loves. 

Knowing that, she shouldn’t be scared of anything. 

But it’s not that simple, unfortunately. 

As the song comes to an end, Bellamy’s biting his bottom lip, looking down. When he puts the guitar down, Clarke finds herself scooting closer until their legs are touching. Desperately, she wants him to spread his, to welcome her, but a part of her doesn’t think she quite deserves that. After leaving his mom's house tonight, he shouldn't settle for anything less than unconditional, unapologetic love. 

That was never them. 

Still, Bellamy lets her onto his lap, places his warm hands at the back of her neck. “Listen, we’re just trying to figure this out. Nothing has to change.”

Overwhelmed by the softness of his eyes and words, Clarke kisses him. Her fingertips find a few tiny curls of his hair, intertwines with them. What he just said is so fucking selfless, it makes her heart glow and ache at the same time. How is it possible that his most endearing quality is also his greatest flaw?

Here he is, doing everything that he can to convince her that she doesn’t need to love him back; that it doesn’t matter, and that’s the most tragic thing about him: He gives, and he gives, and he gives without ever expecting anything in return. 

“But you want it to,” she says.

“No, Clarke, I—”

“Just _stop,_ Bellamy. Of course you do. You walked out on your mother because of me.” To soften the statement, she brushes her thumb across his freckled cheekbone, but it doesn’t appear to work; he tenses anyway. 

His jaw clenching, he corrects her. “It wasn’t for _you._ I walked out because she’s been trying to control me since I started making money. I—I just can’t take it anymore. I did it for myself. Don’t get it twisted.”

Although she’d had an idea of this already, hearing him say it makes her stomach drop. It’s difficult to accept that Aurora actually treats him like this, and while it’s _not_ okay, it’s not a mystery either. Adults should never be financially dependent on their children; nothing healthy will ever come out of a situation like that, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Sometimes, a relationship will be fine and dandy until it’s not, and Clarke supposes that Bellamy’s choice to move out must’ve sent shockwaves through his home. The thought of him leaving and taking the money with him gave rise to panic. Because he’d be prioritizing his own life for once. 

It makes her blood boil. Still, she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she leans her forehead against his, keeping their eyes locked. “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry. Didn't mean to..."

Bellamy takes a breath, offering her a gentle smile. “It’s fine, Clarke.” Once he’s said this, he raises his hand to show her his pruney fingertips. “Now, we better get out of here before I turn into an old man. That’s not very sexy.” 

She snorts, unable to resist the urge to tease him, “What are you talking about? You _are_ a sexy, old man.” 

Before he steps onto the tiles, Bellamy splashes more water in her face. Feeling reluctant to leave the bath herself, Clarke just leans on the edge of the tub to watch him dry himself with a white, fluffy-looking towel.

For a few seconds, she has a perfect view of his ass, but then he turns around, forcing her mind to leave the gutter, as he asks, “Seriously, though, is the age gap… you know, an issue? ‘Cause I—I mean, I worry about it sometimes.”

Though it would be so easy to deflect this whole conversation by making a flippant comment — maybe along the lines of ‘ _I don’t care about you being old’_ — this is not a joke to him. It would be wrong to treat it as such. “No, it’s not an issue. Not really. But it’s a fact. We can’t ignore that.” 

Bellamy rubs his wet curls with the towel for a moment, distracting her. “You’re right, um… Clarke, would you mind getting out of the tub? I don’t think this is the best way to talk.” 

“Sorry, but I’m too comfortable right now. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to _make me_.” 

“God, you can be such a fucking brat,” he says, his voice revealing affection. 

A radiant smile adorning his face, he walks over and lifts her out of the lukewarm water, spinning her around once, as though she’s a mermaid and he’s trying to ease her journey onto land. 

In retaliation for the comment, she steals his towel, which only proves his point further, but Clarke doesn’t care about acting like a brat if it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“You want to borrow some clothes?” he asks, detangling her hair a bit with his fingers. 

“Yeah, and a pair of boxers, please. I don’t have any underwear here.” 

(In fact, she doesn’t have _anything_ here. Not even a toothbrush… Maybe she wants that. And a drawer, too. Just a small one.)

Clarke follows him into the bedroom where Bellamy spends a good two minutes picking out a comfy outfit for her: Light gray sweatpants, a burgundy hoodie, and a pair of black boxers that are, of course, way too big on her, but they’re soft, which is all that matters. As a final touch, he makes coffee for both of them and brings the steaming cups upstairs to the bed. 

“It’s a bit strong. Hope you don’t plan on sleeping tonight,” he says, mostly as a joke, but she wiggles her eyebrows. “No, not like _that,_ I just—”

“Don’t be such a prude, Bellamy,” Clarke teases. “So, anyway… Age gap?”

He snorts. “Way to rip off the band-aid, Princess.”

“Well, someone’s gotta do it—”

“ _Okay—_ Listen,” With that interjection, he twists a little to look at her. “What you said is true. There are five years between us, and we can’t just ignore that. And it’s not… It’s not just about the sex, it’s everything. It’s the arguments, the talks, the issues that we’ve had, that we’re _gonna_ have. You’re not a doormat, Clarke, far from it, but there is… there is a natural imbalance here.” 

Even though she's aware of that, it’s still strange because it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly where that imbalance lies. She supposes that it can affect several different elements of their relationship, but a lot of it comes down to the fact that he’s just more… grown up. There’s no use in denying it. They shouldn’t. As she just told Aurora today, they’re both adults, but in order for their relationship to work, they need to _behave_ like adults and make sure that they’re on equal footing. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I guess the only way to deal with it is to communicate, right?”

“Absolutely.”

If Clarke were to judge it herself, she’d say that they’ve done a decent job thus far. Sure, they’ve had their screw-ups, the thing with Roma being one of them, but at least they've done what they could to resolve it every time. It hasn’t been perfect, but it’ll never be. Nothing is, anyway. 

As long as they do their best, it’s worth it.

“To be clear,” Bellamy says, smiling softly. “I don’t think you’re a brat. You’re independent and strong and _driven._ Even more so than you were two years ago.” 

Perhaps she should just take the compliment and let the conversation move swiftly on, but that would be the easy way out and, at this point, she’s _so_ fucking fed up with doing that. So, she lets her mind drift to the image of her happy, Rock-loving dad and builds up the courage to say, “I’ve changed a lot since the accident." 

It’s always been hard for her to see those changes in a positive light, but Bellamy seems to. 

His earthy eyes tender, he brushes his hand across her knuckles, wordlessly asking for permission to interlace their fingers; she lets him. “I’ve become… harder, I guess. But it wasn’t just Dad, it was so much. I lost _so_ much.” The tears rise to her blur her vision, stinging. “Octavia… I could’ve let her in, but I—”

“Hey, no,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t your fault.” 

“But it kinda was, Bellamy! I pushed everyone away, you included.” 

At that admission, he blinks, moving back a little in surprise. Then he fumbles for a quick response, which happens to be, “I didn’t try hard enough. I should’ve helped you.”

Maybe he should have, but it’s too late now. And it’s not the point, either. Unsure of how to respond to it, she brushes off his comment, tells him, “It’s true, you know, the thing about how your whole world falls apart when you lose someone.” 

Bellamy nods in understanding, squeezing her hand. 

“My mom was too busy distracting herself by working overtime. I had to pick everything up by myself… I remember a nightmare I had about nearly drowning; the sea seemed bottomless, the waves were enormous and, for a while, I couldn’t see anything at all. I was so disoriented, but when I finally caught a glimpse of something, it—it was our couch, floating a few feet away. The ocean was my living room. I was drowning at _home._ ” 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

A single tear escapes her eye, but she wipes it away with the back of her hand. When she tries to force a chuckle, the sound comes out choked, sad, _tragic._ “Yeah…” 

For now, she’s had enough of this. She wants the weight to be lifted off her chest; she wants to smile without it stiffening on her face. Desperately, she searches her brain for something, _anything_ , that might help but, in the end, it’s Bellamy who comes up with the perfect suggestion.

“Hey, do you want me to teach you a few chords?” he asks, glancing at the acoustic that’s leaning on his dresser. 

Excitement sparks in her chest like fireworks. “Hell _yes_!”

When he brings it onto the bed and hands it to her. As soon as it’s placed in her hands, she’s struck by the sense of carrying a precious possession, and she’s grateful that he’s choosing to share it with her. He teaches her the four most frequently-used chords, showing her where to place her fingers on the neck; some of the placements make her wish her fingers were longer, and the tough strings cut into her delicate skin. 

“At least now I know where your fingertips are so calloused,” she tells him, smiling as she strums a C-chord lightly with her right hand. 

Bellamy grins. “That’s good. Try and switch to A major.” 

Her attempt is clumsy but not _terrible_. Yeah, she could get used to this, if only to see more of the brilliant sparks in dark eyes. The way he’s looking at her is so full of pride, of fondness, that it takes her breath away. Because of this, she tries to focus on playing. 

In half an hour, she’s learned how to string a melody together, but she can't do a song. She’ll leave that to Bellamy. Once she’s returned the beloved instrument to him, he plays a slow, hauntingly beautiful cover of _Jolene._

The words, as they fall off his lips, make her think, perhaps more than they should. 

“Have you ever been jealous?” she asks suddenly, bringing the sweet music to an abrupt break, and she rushes to justify it a bit, “It’s just… you don’t seem the type.” 

“Well, I’m not immune to it. It doesn’t happen often, though.” Averting his gaze to the strings, he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. “I guess, when Miller got his first boyfriend during our senior year, I didn’t really like that. I wanted to be happy for him, but—I just couldn’t. It forced me to acknowledge a few things. About myself. About us.” 

Clarke can’t help but stare. “... And what were those things?”

In the last few seconds, a pale pink tint has settled beneath Bellamy’s freckles. “Uh, let’s just say that I’d always been the person that he devoted the most attention to, and suddenly I wasn’t anymore. I was a frustrated teenager at the time, I’d—” Finally, he meets her gaze. “—I’d placed myself firmly in the closet. I’d decided that I couldn’t want the things that Miller was ready to have, and I beat myself up over the fact that, _maybe_ if I had been ready, too, he—we could’ve…” 

Irrationally, Clarke feels as if someone just stole the air from her lungs. “You were in love with him.”

Bellamy jolts, the statement pulling him out of an apparent trance. For a moment, his eyes spark with determination and it looks like he’s going to go to great lengths to deny it, but instead he scoffs half-heartedly. “ _Were._ I could’ve been with him if I wanted to.”

Between them hangs the unspoken words: _Don’t forget it._

“I’m sorry, I didn’t...” Clarke swallows, cursing herself for making him feel defensive. 

The problem is: _she could see it._ He and Miller, it makes sense: Through everything, they have stuck by each other; they know how to work together. In many ways, that relationship would probably be more balanced and even _better_ for him, so why doesn’t he want it? Is it only because their friendship is too precious to risk? 

Looking at her, Bellamy sighs, as though he can hear the stream of thoughts in her head. But his eyes are still gentle. “I don’t have those feelings anymore. When I came to terms with my sexuality, they began to dwindle. I guess he represented acceptance and safety; that’s why a romantic relationship with him was attractive in the first place. I wanted us, mainly because I desperately wanted to feel safe, _loved_ , if that makes any sense at all. When I’d gone through that process and I started to reach that point on my own, I stopped looking to him for it.” 

His words blow her away. Frankly, she can’t imagine how much self-reflection it must’ve taken for him to figure this out, but it only proves what she already knows: Bellamy truly understands himself, and it’s admirable because he’s spent most of his life prioritizing others. 

At once, Clarke’s chest is flooded with warmth. “That’s… that does make sense,” is all that she can manage. 

Bellamy offers her a crooked grin. “It doesn’t mean my feelings weren’t valid, but it explains why they went away.” 

“God, you’re so…” Heat rises to her cheeks, and she catches herself, squeezing her lips to a thin line to keep them from moving. 

Next to her, Bellamy perks up, his grin brightening. “What, Princess?”

Trying to be nonchalant, she gives him a light shove, but he doesn’t move an inch; her efforts are pathetic. “ _Unreal._ You’re unreal.” 

At that response, he bursts into laughter. The sound is pure and perfect, sinking into her skin and making her chest swell. Everything is golden, so suddenly that she doesn’t have time to question it, and — perhaps for the first time ever — she doesn’t want to. She wants his happiness to _blind_ her: Like the sun, it has its way of rising, of smothering the darkness. 

“Not exactly what I was hoping for,” he admits. 

Her heart is fluttering, mimicking the wings of a caged bird. _Let me out, let me out, let me out._

If he truly doesn’t think that loving her will make a difference, he’s wrong; it has given her more than she could've ever dreamt of; he’s brought color back into her life, has drained the ocean that flooded her home, and carved out a new one for her. Somehow, he's brighter than he ever was. She can see him so clearly now.

Burning. It seems like forever ago; his fire was what drew her back to him: Longing to burn, to feel alive with him. Because of him. She was convinced that it could only happen one way, but he has ignited her over and over again, with the stroke of a hand, with sounds, with the flavor of something sweet and bitter and hot. Sometimes, it might not be easy to be caught up in the middle of everything that he is, but to leave it behind would be to return to bleakness. And why on Earth would she ever do that to herself? 

“Bellamy…” 

At the sound of his name, he looks up, his smile faltering. “What?” 

The first question that lights up in her mind makes it past her lips, “Can I live with you?”

If he were anything like the asshole that she first thought he was, he wouldn’t have taken her seriously. But he places his hand over his mouth, hiding a flourishing smile. A lifetime seems to pass before he opens his mouth, his dark eyes radiant as he shakes his head fondly. “I don’t know. _Can you_? I wake up at 5 AM every morning.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Not a problem.” 

“I can’t stop buying books. We’ll be living in a library come December.”

(The two tall stacks next to the window sill allude to that, she notes while her ribcage swells). “Sounds cozy.” 

“Okay, but I _snore_!”

Trailing her fingertip across a vein on his forearm, she assures him, “It’s not that bad,” and it’s _really_ not. The few times that she has found herself briefly awake to hear it, his breathing has been soothing like a lullaby, easing her back to sleep. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t alone. Since her dad died, she’s grown used to lonely mornings of going to the park and looking at the sky for solace. 

But she doesn’t have to be alone anymore. 

Clarke rests her head on Bellamy’s shoulder, and he interlaces their fingers. Then he murmurs, “What about your mom?” 

Though a lump tries to clog her throat, it doesn’t stay there for long; she’s able to swallow it, filled to the brim by determination. “My mom needs to focus on getting better. I won’t leave her behind, but her treatment is giving me a chance to worry about myself for a change. When I go to college in two months, I want to have a place that’s mine, that’s _warm_ and relaxing and healthy. That I can always come back to...”

Bellamy kisses the top of her head. 

“... and share with my boyfriend.” 

He stirs. “Hey, you don’t need to—”

“Trust me, I know. Still, it sounds good, doesn’t it?” Sure, there are several things that she might not be ready to do, say, or hear. But she knows that she wants this, with him, and she wants to commit to it. Deciding what he’ll be to her from now on seems like a great place to start. 

“Yeah, sounds nice,” is what he replies after a couple of long seconds, his voice a little frayed. “I want this to be your home more than anything.” 

Suddenly, it feels as if the mountain that she’s been carrying for ages has been lifted off her shoulders. At the same time, they raise and turn their heads, allowing their foreheads to meet. “Then I’ll need a toothbrush,” she says. 

* * *

Maybe it should puzzle her, how quickly her mind was consumed by this idea, but at the moment it felt right, more right than a confession or even a separation. In this decision, they’ve found a middle ground, a way to build on what they already have without taking it a step too far. It feels as if they’ve already been planted in each other’s spaces, to bloom at a rate that suited them. And when they go to the dollar store a few minutes past midnight to find her a supply of toiletries, they’ve grown tall enough to see the horizon, speckled with stars. 

Bellamy’s playing another song by Bon Iver while she places the items in the cabinet, and her phone chimes.

**Octavia:** I want to fix this. Do you?

Clarke stares at the text, Bellamy’s voice ringing out clearly, “ _Only love is all maroon. Lapping lakes like leary loons, leaving rope burns… Reddish rouge._ ” Her head is spinning as she glimpses into the bedroom; the silvery moonlight is washing over him, and her heart quivers, knowing that there are some people you come back to. Because the ruins of what once was still stand tall, still echo with words left unsaid and the memories that are oh-so loud. 

Some people, like places, are worth revisiting.

And then there is the soil that you never want to touch again because you have felt it crumble beneath your feet. 

  
**Clarke:** There’s nothing to fix anymore.

If we want this to work, we’re gonna have to rebuild.

Meet me at my mom’s house tomorrow at 10.

There are a few things I need packed.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos brighten my day and keep me going! thanks for reading 💕
> 
> if you want, you can also yell at me on twitter (@selflessbellfic) or tumblr (@selflessbellamy)


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